Camp X (6 page)

The soldier walked back and forth in front of the four men. He barked out questions I couldn't understand and they answered back. He stopped in front of one of the men and bent over and started yelling at him. The man shook his head repeatedly but wasn't answering. The soldier drew back his hand and slapped him, sending him reeling backwards!

I gasped in shock.

Jack looked over at me. “Serves him right,” he whispered. “That's the way you have to treat Nazis and enemy agents.”

The man picked himself up and returned to the same position as the others, on his knees.

The soldier barked out another order and slowly the four men, hands still on top of their heads, rose to their feet.

Another order was given and the four men turned around, facing away from the soldiers. The soldier who had been doing all the speaking retrieved his rifle, and now both soldiers trained their weapons on the men.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“I . . .think . . . they're going to shoot them,” Jack stammered.

“They can't do that . . . they can't . . . can they?”

One of the soldiers lowered his rifle and then the second did the same. They started to laugh, and then the four men lowered their hands and turned around. They started to laugh as well! They walked toward the soldiers. One of them reached out and hugged one of them! It was the man who'd been slapped! They laughed and talked and smiled and slapped each other on the back and . . . this was unbelievable . . . what was happening?

I turned to Jack. He looked totally stunned.

One of the soldiers handed his rifle to one of the men dressed in black. He walked over and climbed behind the wheel of the jeep. The second soldier climbed into the seat beside him. The four men, one still holding on to the rifle, piled into the back, two filling the seats, the other two standing, holding onto the big roll bar. The engine roared to life and the gears ground together as the jeep started off. We stayed hidden behind the bush, not moving, as the jeep bumped across the field, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind a stand of trees and was gone.

“Jack . . . I . . . don't understand,” I stammered. My mind
was filled with raw emotions and thoughts, none of which made any sense. “What just happened?”

Jack just shrugged and shook his head. “I don't know. But I know we have to get out of here.”

CHAPTER SIX

“
LOOK, WE CAN TALK
about it all you want and it still won't make any sense!” Jack said.

“I just think there has to be some explanation as to why they were speaking German.”

“Okay, explain it to me.”

“Well, let's just assume that you were right and those four men were spies, and . . . and . . .”

“And what?” Jack demanded.

“Well . . . I guess that I can't really figure it out right now, but maybe—”

“Maybe nothing! All I know is that I want you to shut up about it!” Jack hollered.

“Boys! Boys! No fighting!”

I turned around. It was Mr. Krum, the owner and editor of the local newspaper, the
Whitby Reporter
. Jack and I were sitting on the loading dock at the back of the newspaper office, folding up the papers he'd be delivering today.

“We're not fighting,” Jack said. “We're sort of discussing things.”

“If this is a discussion, I'd hate to see a fight. It is not polite to say
shut up
to someone.”

“Someone? No, you don't understand. I was saying it to my
brother,
” Jack explained with a grin.

Mr. Krum burst into laughter. “Brothers,” he said, shaking his head. “Some things don't change from one generation to the next. And what was it that you were arguing about?”

“About the war,” Jack told him.

“There's little room for argument there,” he said. “One side is good, the other evil. Perhaps in the history of war there has never been such a clear distinction between the two sides.”

“We know that. We were arguing about spies and agents and stuff,” I explained. “Do you think there are spies?”

Jack shot me a dirty look.

“In every war there are spies,” he answered.

“But around here?” Jack asked.

Mr. Krum shrugged. “Why not around here? The munitions factory is one of the biggest in the country. A perfect target for sabotage. And then down the road no more than twenty miles is Camp Thirty.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“A prisoner-of-war camp in Bowmanville. It has over two hundred German prisoners. Some very, very important high-ranking officers are imprisoned there.”

“I didn't know about that.” I said. “Did you?” I asked Jack.

He shook his head.

“Many people don't. Being the editor of the paper I learn many things. That is my job . . . no?”

“I guess so,” Jack agreed.

I loved newspapers. I didn't just read them, I dreamed about what it would be like to be a reporter.

“But I've never heard anything about it,” I said, “and I read the paper every day.”

“That's wonderful to hear, but this is not the kind of information you will find in a newspaper.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Classified. There are certain things I cannot write about because of the war. Things we wouldn't want the enemy to know of.”

“You think the enemy reads your paper?” Jack asked him. “

Possibly. And possibly you are the one delivering it to their door each day,” Mr. Krum said. “Me? One of my customers?”

Mr. Krum laughed. It was a friendly laugh. When some people laughed it felt as though they were laughing at you, but not him. “Don't look so surprised.”

“But my customers are just regular people, they're not spies!”

“Do you think they'd have a sign up on their door, announcing ‘German Spies Live Here'? They'd be a little more clever than that. Any of them could be a German agent. As far as you know,
I
could be a German agent.”

“You?” Jack asked.

“Why not? Newspaper editor would be the perfect occu-
pation for a spy. Who else has such liberty to wander around and ask questions and poke his nose in where it doesn't belong? Who knows more about a community than the editor of the local paper?”

“I guess you're right,” Jack admitted.

“You probably know all about everybody around here . . . more than anybody else,” I ventured.

“I think that
know
should be a past-tense verb.”

I shook my head. “I . . . I don't understand.”

“
Knew
everybody. I knew everybody, but not now. So many new people, so many changes. There are five times as many people subscribing to my paper now as there were last year,” Mr. Krum explained. “So many new people whom I know nothing about.”

“People like us,” Jack said.

“Exactly. Take your mother, for example. She moved down here with her children. She takes up a job at the very factory that makes munitions. Where better for a spy or a saboteur to take a position?”

“Our mother isn't a spy!” I protested.

“I am not saying that she is . . . although if she were, you two would know nothing about it. All I'm saying is that she could be, and I might never find out, because I know nothing about her or the hundreds of other newcomers in the area.”

“Do you know what's going on down by the lake over by Thornton Road?” Jack asked.

“Ah . . . it did not take you boys long to find out about the biggest mystery around these parts.”

“There's a mystery?”

“Many, I'm afraid. You're talking about Glenrath.”

“Glenrath?”

“That was what the property was called. Two hundred and seventy-five acres extending up from the lake to the railroad tracks in the north, and from Corbett's Creek on one side to Thornton Road on the other.”

“Who owns it?” Jack asked.

“It used to be owned by the Sinclair family. But it was sold eight months ago.”

“Who bought it?”

“That's an interesting question. Some think it was a branch of the government. Judging by those posted signs restricting entry it probably belongs to the Department of National Defence.”

“Probably? You don't know?” I asked.

“
Think
and
know
are two very different things. I know that is what the signs say, and I know there are armed guards who patrol the property.”

“Have you ever run into the guards?” I asked.

“I was driving along the highway one day when I saw a gigantic truck filled with lumber turn onto Thornton. Naturally I was curious and followed. At least I followed partway down the road until my way was blocked.”

“By a jeep, right?” I blurted out.

“Yes, by two armed men in a jeep and . . .” He stopped. “And how would you know that they would be riding in jeeps?”

“Well . . .” I didn't know what to say.

“We've seen them from the fence,” Jack said, coming to my rescue.

Obviously he was as wary as I was of telling Mr. Krum about being confronted by the guards. We'd agreed not to talk to anybody, in case they spoke to our mother.

“I see, you were standing at the fence,” he said, although his tone suggested that he didn't believe what Jack had told him.

“So these soldiers jumped from their jeep and ordered me to drive back up the road,” Mr. Krum continued. “I questioned them, asking them what authority they had to order me about. One of them held up his rifle and promptly told me he was holding his authority in his hands and I should get out before I regretted not leaving.”

“And what did you do?” I asked.

Mr. Krum shrugged. “I left.” He paused. “For a while.”

“Sounds like you've been back,” Jack prompted.

“I've asked questions of different people, and I too have stood by the fence and watched. Most peculiar things are going on.”

“Like what?”

“Explosions.”

“I haven't heard anything like that,” Jack said doubtfully.

“It hasn't been as bad lately. There was one explosion, before your family moved here, which was so forceful it broke the windows on houses throughout the area. Dozens and dozens of houses had broken or cracked windows.”

“That must have been an interesting story to write,” I said.

“Interesting to write. Unfortunately, nobody would ever read it.”

“Why not?”

“As I've mentioned, censorship. I was forbidden to run that story.”

“I just don't understand why you can't write what you want,” Jack said. “It's your paper.”

“Not in times of war. The explosion was big news around here, but before my story got to press I received a telephone call from a man stating that he was with the RCMP. He informed me that the story was classified and that he wasn't on the phone to be interviewed. I was informed that the damage to local houses was caused by a low-flying airplane. He stated, rather impolitely I might add, that I could run the story with that explanation or not run the story at all. I chose not to run the story.”

“So,” said Jack, “if the RCMP told you not to run the story, then whatever's going on at that place must be connected to the government, right?”

“So you'd assume . . . but a good reporter never assumes.”

“How did you even know for sure that the man on the phone was from the RCMP?” I asked.

“Ahhhh . . . good question. You'd make a good reporter.”

I beamed.

“The man recited a code, a series of numbers, which identified him as being official.”

“But how do
you
know about that code?” I asked.

“Official documents were sent to me and, I assume, every
other editor in the country, to identify official communication censoring a story.”

“So lots of people know the code,” said Jack. “And anybody who knows the code could have called you.”

“I imagine that you are correct.”

“But you didn't run the story,” I said, “so you must have believed him.”

“It sounds as though I made an assumption. Perhaps the next time I am asked to alter or suppress a story I should ask for further corroboration.”

“Has that happened often, them asking you not to run a story?” I asked.

“Not too often, but I know how I could guarantee a call.”

“How?” Jack wanted to know.

“I could start to ask more questions about the gigantic antenna that's been constructed at the south end of the property.”

“That
is
huge!” I agreed.

Mr. Krum furrowed his brow. “You've seen the tower?”

“A bit . . . from a distance.”

“That's interesting. It is not visible from any place except the lake. Were you on the lake?”

I didn't know what to say.

“Or perhaps, did you do a little bit more than just stand at the fence?” he asked knowingly.

“A little bit more,” Jack admitted.

“I understand your curiosity. A good newspaperman is part Nosy Parker and part town gossip,” Mr. Krum said. “I'd love
to know what was going on. But you boys must promise not to go back there. The things I know for sure are that those men were carrying rifles and people get shot with rifles, and I cannot afford to have Jack getting shot.” He paused. “I would be short a paper delivery boy, and it is hard enough to get reliable workers as it is.”

“We'll stay away,” Jack told him.

I looked over at him, a bit suspiciously.

“I do not know if I believe you, Jack,” Mr. Krum said, voicing my doubt. “But that is certainly the correct answer.”

“Would you tell us more if you found anything out?” I asked.

“Certainly. If you two promise to stay away from that property, I promise to share any new information I receive. It is my destiny to be here for the duration of this war, although that was not my wish.”