the table and sends you to the pots and pans.
You are heading toward the parish, dragging a burlap sack behind you. There are three pots in it. Your mother is doing her part for the coming war. She is making a worthy donation of her pots. There is a real need for aluminum: her pots will become a warship.
You are proud to be a cog in this bit of alchemy.
Plus, it gives you hope. You imagine a pot slicing through the waves and destroying the enemy instead of hanging around in the oven.
One day, you too will turn into a warship.
You walk along the street; your legs have never been so long. You are fourteen, the age of possibility, when we think we are immortal.
Your feet don’t touch the ground. You skim it and propel yourself elegantly through the space around you, claiming it as your own.
You reign over the world with a light touch, with disarming assurance.
You enter the classroom, greet your teacher with a sincere smile, and take your seat at the front.
It’s oral presentation day, and you have been chosen to get things rolling, which you like doing.
‘We are at war,’ you say, solemnly.
You are wearing lipstick. You thought that talking about war would be the perfect opportunity to wear lipstick.
You get the distinct impression that the words coming out of your mouth are cushioned. The news is powerful, but your telling of it seems delicate. You choose your words carefully. You pick them with your fingertips, but they settle in your mouth authoritatively and come out ornate, as if proud of having been chosen.
The whole class is hanging on your words. They already know, they are learning nothing new, but they are captivated by the way you honour the language.
‘William Lyon Mackenzie King intends to mobilize the Canadian armed forces and the economy to support the war effort. But in September, he announced that he wouldn’t necessarily introduce the draft. At the time, our prime minister said he was sensitive to the opinion of French Canadians about the draft. We are still against it. Despite that, this morning, he did an about-face … and announced the mobilization of all single men in three days.’
As you leave school, you hear the church bells ring. Everything seems a little off. An agitated chaos has descended on the city.
At first glance, the church square looks like a cruise ship. A hundred families are milling about in colourful outfits, their gestures random, their laughter nervous.
You stop, trying to understand the scene. Then you spot the two priests, attempting to put order to the milling masses.
Your eyes sharpen and you see the patched, repurposed grooms-wear.
The clothes have been hauled out from parents’ chests. They have put a dress over a nightgown that more or less matches. It’s a group wedding. There are only a few hours left to get married. A few hours to avoid going to war.
On a table, hard, white cake is set out, made with sugar ration coupons hastily begged from the extended families of the impromptu brides and grooms.
Aware of their power, the priests are running around and feeling useful like never before. They are dispensing for better or for worse and savouring the chaste kisses of those plucked from danger.
You watch the spineless, candy-coated crowd. Too much lace, too much laughter, too much happiness.
You tell yourself that if you had the choice, you would choose war.
Cries of joy merge and combine with the blackout siren that sounds through the neighbourhood.
They are playing war games: it’s a rehearsal.
People are not scared of it yet. The siren drowns out the music and the church bells.
You need to seek shelter; it’s to practise. The cloud of newlyweds slowly disperses. You take cover in the church. The confessional is empty, and you settle in there to wait for the all-clear.
The low wail of the sirens creeps into the church. It seems muffled, as if it hadn’t been invited in.
You fall asleep.
There is a creak and you jump.
‘Hello?’
The voice of the priest.
‘My child, did you want to confess?’
You sit up straight.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I committed obscene acts, Father.’
‘On yourself or on someone else?’
‘On you, Father.’
You smile. You like the silence that follows.
Outside, the sky is turning grey. You hurry. You walk past the plant where women work. You stop to look at them. Their gestures are as perfectly timed as the short hand on the clock in the living room. Fine and exact. Precise, female hands.
They are making weapons. Turning pots into warships.
They wear berets, and their clothes have a sober, military cut.
They are like ballerinas. The elegance of the useful gesture.
They are also a motivation, a reward. The men who go off to the front fight for them: their beauty is part of the war effort.
Way in back, you think you spot Hilda Strike, dressed to run, her slender body and warrior presence. She looks up at you.
It’s raining. You walk slowly home.
On the radio in the kitchen: ‘At 5:45 a.m., the Operation Neptune fleet opened fire on German defence forces.
‘At 6:30 a.m., the first waves of the American assault force landed on Utah and Omaha beaches. In the British and Canadian sector, the attack was launched one hour later because of the different tide times.
‘We do not yet know the extent of the losses, but the Atlantic Wall seems to have been breached along its length, and the Allies have penetrated some six miles inland.’
You, your mother and your sisters are standing on chairs, rags in hand. You are washing the windows.
You are astonished by the differences possible between two lives. This morning, a soldier was running through the sea at Normandy, dancing with death, praying to his mother to watch over him.
You look at your mother. She seems so delicate and small. You could take her and crush her. She notices you looking, which makes her squint in irritation. She turns her head, as if you were giving off too much light. She sends you back to your work with a subtle gesture, pointing to the slimy trace of an insect.
A bird flies into the sparkling clean
