The Night Travellers

7. Gerda;s Journal

Gerda;s Journal It is curious to report that the day I heard about the Satterfields' cottage burning down in the Laurentians, I was preparing to have a meeting of a writers' group in my house. Writing in my journal, to begin with, was what started me thinking I might take up writing seriously, and that connection was what led me once again to wonder about Mary Blaise. Perhaps I could write something—story or article —about her. Why not? A war resister's wife, known personally, might furnish an interesting subject. But how to find her? At the moment, finding her seemed of prime importance in the path ahead which I meant to travel. I would interview her. I wouldn't tell Gordon. Searching through my memory, I came across the name of Leonard Abel, someone who had been inviting her to dinner and making noises of sympathy—Jewish, from someplace in Europe, now living out in the Notre Dame de Grace section. I went straight in from the irises, took off my garden gloves, washed my hands, and searched the phone book. The Abels. A woman answered. A baby was crying. She had to shout. She was calling for Leonard. I remembered he worked at the Jewish cultural center. Maybe they were closed till the fall. He must be out of school by now. "Mary Blaise?" His voice hesitated. "Yes, we do still see her. I'm uncertain just where she lives. Perhaps I could look it up for you. May I ask who you are? I said, to whom do I speak?" People who have learned English speak like that. I told him my name. Yes, he had heard of me. Mary had spoken of Gordon and me. 3*7 7 318 THE N I G H T T R A V E L L E R S "Her husband's back/' he said. "You didn't know that? She took the little girl and moved to east Montreal with him. We don't know where they live. Perhaps I can find out. Is it urgent? We've got our hands full now, you know. A baby boy." His voice shuddered with pride. As I hung up, something else occurred to me. If I told Gordon my plan for writing about her, I could tell by his response what he felt. I would know if he was still in touch. It would be a clever, peaceful way. No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang. Margery Satterfield was calling to say she and George were back from Madeira, a fine vacation, except for the bad news that in their absence their cottage in the Laurentians had burned. The roof and two walls were gone completely, the furnishings ruined beyond repair. Now here is the unbelievable part, the reason I am writing in my journal once more, not doing any article or story, but just setting down this weird coincidence. Gordon returned home that night upset about Mary Blaise. Not in the way I might have suspected, but about the Satterfield house! Mary had been seen up there by someone who had known her in her early days in Montreal. Someone who had lived, like her, in the house on Seymour Street. I said, "What's that got to do with the Satterfield house?" "She's suspected of having burned it down, that's all." I thought I must be psychic. Mental telepathy must certainly be at work. Gordon was not very interested in such theories. "No end to her misfortunes," was his comment. "Good deeds don't go unpunished. Now they're after me." "After you? Why?" "My name on her records. That suicide, paying bail. Her whereabouts are wanted, no recent updating of reports . . . thought to have left Montreal for the States. I said for all I knew she had." "But you know better. You told me you sighted her, that day you took the wrong Metro." He didn't answer. It wasn't Leonard Abel who called the next day. It wasMary herself. A strained, rapid voice, begging to speak to Gordon. So she doesn't stay in touch with him. Reunion 319 "Can't you tell me what's wrong, dear?" I inquired, in a motherly tone. "There's been an accident. Too complicated to explain. They think I set a house on fire. Also, they are looking for...