Valentina

Maggie hurled the sledgehammer into the wall as hard as she could, releasing a cascade of dust and fragments that caused her to hack and choke. She tied a bandana over her mouth, determined to finish the job. Raising the hammer again, she struck the crumbling drywall, widening the hole to reveal the studs and sheets on the opposite side. Satisfied, she reached in and loosened a section held by only one nail, tossing it to the ground. When the dust settled, she peered more closely at the crossbeam in disbelief. Between the walls, three items were stored, a brown glass jug, a rusted teaspoon, and a faded Red Rose coffee tin from the early 1950s. She had heard stories about workers leaving their lunches in the walls, but this house had been built by her great-grandfather, so Maggie suspected it was no accident those treasures were secreted away.

Picking up the jug, she marveled at its weight and size, how perfectly it fit into the small space between the studs, then turned the spoon around in her hands, wondering if her great-grandfather had used it while completing the frame for the home she had visited so often as a child. She replaced it and lifted the tin can, then attempted to unscrew the lid. Using every tool in the room, she squeezed, rolled, banged, and dinted the can, but it refused to open. Maggie almost gave up and called her boyfriend, Dave, but wanted to keep her find to herself for a while. They had just gotten back together after his “mistake”, and she wasn’t sure if she could, or should, trust him. Out of desperation, she wedged the can between two broken studs and hoisted the sledgehammer, slamming it down soundly. She heard a pop.

The lid released easily, revealing a large collection of bills with the picture of a child inside. Maggie considered the black-and-white image of the toddler, and read the inscription on the back, “Valentina, Ortona, 1946”. She squeezed the wide roll of bills, $500 each! Stunned, she delicately removed the thin elastic, and counted the cash, shifting between her left and right hands several times to ensure that her calculations were correct, $20,000 CDN. Short of breath, a flurry of thoughts raced through her mind: Who was this child? Was this his life savings? Why stuff it away in a wall?

Dave called from across the hall, “How’s it goin, babe?”

“Good”, she replied, shoving the bills back in. Maggie began searching for a new place to hide it. On the back wall, she found a loose air return, placed a drywall fragment over the vent, tested it for stability, then put the tin can on top, concealing it with the grate. She was squatting in the rubble by the jug and spoon when he entered the room.

“Wanna sub?” Dave asked. “What’ca got there?”

“Found ‘em in the wall,” Maggie said, smiling.

“Cool,” he replied with amused disinterest.

“I had no idea…” she added, tight lipped.

“Headin’ out now, if you want to come,” Dave offered.

“You bet,” Maggie replied, “My treat today…”

“Should hand you sledgehammer more often,” he teased, putting his arm around her.

“I’m a fan!” she said, although she couldn’t help but bristle slightly at his touch.

Maggie and Dave made their way towards town, nearly an hour’s drive from the old farmstead. She missed it already, the loft apartment they used to share in the heritage building above the main library. Maggie loved the spacious layout and large, arcing windows that faced south, how the late afternoon light used to spill into the living room, gentle and warm, causing heat to radiate off the exposed brick. She had no desire to move, but recently inherited the house, and what happened with Dave a few months ago nearly put an end to them, so a change was unavoidable, if not ill-advised.

She wondered if it wouldn’t be better to leave him altogether. All her friends said as much, and her mother still hadn’t forgiven Dave, but Maggie was tough, and curious to a fault. She wanted to know whether it was possible to forgive and forget, her Catholic upbringing something, she believed, she had outgrown. She watched him sitting comfortably beside her as the truck bounced along the gravel road, whistling an Ian Tyson tune, carefree as the flies in the fields. It mystified and irked her, so she breathed deeply, knowing it always ended the same way, her apologizing for “starting a fight”, and Dave reminding her that if she couldn’t get past it, there was nothing he could do. Today, having a little intrigue of her own made that a bit easier…

Dave pulled up in front of the sub shop, across the street from The Papery, her favourite store, beside the library, below where she used to live. Maggie looked up at the windows of her former living room with a sense of longing and regret, despite her good fortune. Swallowing hard, she stepped onto the curb.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Um, ok,” Dave replied.

“Can you order for me? Veggie with two strips of bacon,” she asked as she ran across the street, focusing on the paper-mache lanterns hanging above an artful array of journals and fountain pens in the display case at The Papery.

“Wait…thought you were gonna pay?” he reminded her.

“Sorry! Forgot,” she responded, racing back, handing him her bank card, “You know the PIN.”

“You ok?” he asked, sensing something was amiss.

“Yep,” she assured him, although was uncertain herself.

As Maggie walked through the door, an old-fashioned bell jingled, helping to clear her mind. She started searching the counters and shelves for something that would help her uncover the mystery of who the child was, and what, if anything, she had to do with her great-grandfather. Spying a little black book with a moleskin cover, she scooped it up, and felt it, firm but pliable, big enough for notes, but small enough to fit into her back pocket. It had ample pages, and the texture was a bit like a bible. Perfect, she thought! Maggie paid for the journal and shoved it in her jeans.

At the sub shop after lunch, she said, “I know we’re knee deep in dust, but mind if I hit the library?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Nothin’ really, just want to find out more. Didn’t know my great-grandparents, and Gran never said much,” Maggie answered.

Dave nodded, “Might catch the game, if it’s all the same with you,” keen to go to the bar, knowing his mistake worked there as a waitress.

“You ok?” she asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

“Yep, later,” he replied, kissing her cheek in passing.

“Later gator” she repeated, then made a beeline to the library.

Settling into one of the workstations, Maggie put on her glasses and tied her hair back, trying to shake off the anxiety. Lately, it seemed all of their conversations were strained. How could something so simple be so hard, she wondered. They had known each other for years, been together for half a decade, but he felt like a stranger sometimes.

Maggie fired up the computer and Googled “Canada military records, family search” followed by her great-grandfather’s name, confirming that he had been a member of the 41st Canadian Brigade Group, one of the “Loyal Eddies” from Alberta. Next, she searched “World War II, Italian campaign”, and found a topographical map of Italy with a series of striking red lines that ran up the peninsula. She zoomed in and traced each one with her hand close to the screen, following the mountains on the Adriatic side until she found Ortona, a coastal town in the Chieti province. Maggie wrote notes in her journal: Italy, longest WWII campaign @ 2yrs, 19,400 wounded, 5,300 killed (Cdns), started in Sicily, moved up the coast, 1943 – Battle of Ortona, known as “Western Stalingrad”, BLOODY!! – 2,300 casualties, up to 1,375 soldiers (Cdn) + 1,300 civilians killed in one month!

“Jesus, he was there! Over Christmas…” she whispered and kept searching.

On a microfiche in the historical archives, Maggie found a picture of a soldier serving beef stew to children on December 13th, 1943, just days before the historic battle. The caption read “Italian civilians suffered from injuries caused by mines, shells, and stray bullets. Many lost their homes and crops…” Before the battle? she wrote and circled. She pondered what her great-grandfather was doing then, trying to help, or was it his child in the picture? The timing would be about right… in brackets, she added, (Were they married before or after the war? Check!).

“Good Lord!” Maggie uttered, taken aback. The Battle of Ortona was a bloodbath, making headlines throughout the world. The “Loyal Eddies” engaged in vicious house-to-house fighting as part of the Allied forces that blasted their way through interlinked walls in the town’s buildings, a technique called mouse-holing, the streets too dangerous or demolished to enter. “Guess you didn’t like walls either,” she mused, picturing her great-grandfather tearing down whatever stood in his way. She found another microfiche of Lance-Corporal Roy Boyd, who was rescued by the “Loyal Eddies” after being buried for three days in the ruble of a collapsed building, and speculated about what happened over there.

Maggie was out of time. The Oilers game was almost over, so she made a photocopy of the map and placed it inside the book. At the end of the day, she had more questions than answers, but was determined to find who her great-grandfather was and why he would have stored so much money in the wall. Was she a secret, the child in the photo? Should she ask her Gran? Had enough time passed…Maggie decided against it. It was only a month since her Gran had moved into an extended care facility, and they had both been through enough lately.

Leaving the library, Maggie turned back to gaze up at her old living room windows, a bright spot piercing the pane as dusk settled into the prairies. She crossed the street and ran down the block to the bar. Just outside, Maggie heard the clink of empty bottles from the alley, a soft giggle and a deep moan. Odd, she thought. It wasn’t like her to follow the sound, wander into a dark alley alone, but couldn’t help herself, something compelled her, a survival instinct perhaps. When she passed the tall stack of crates and empty casks, she saw them, Dave and his mistake, entangled against the wall.

“Dave!” Maggie cried, knuckles white, hands clenched into fists.

“What the f***!” he shouted, attempting to free himself.

“Don’t bother,” Maggie said. “And don’t come home,” then turned to leave.

“Where’r you goin’?” he called, as his mistake punched him in the arm.

Maggie spun around, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and shouted “Italy!”.