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Storm
&
Stress
By
Jennifer L. Armstrong
Storm & Stress
by Jennifer L. Armstrong

2014

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“The revolutionary is a marked man; he has no personal interests,
affairs or feelings, no personal connections, nothing that belongs
to him, not even a name. Everything in him is geared to a single
and exclusive goal, to a single thought, a single passion: the
Revolution.”
Surgey Nechayev (1847-1882)

May the favour of Yahweh our God rest upon us; establish the
work of our hands for us, yes, establish the work of our hands.
Psalm 90:17
Potsdam, Germany
1917

Kaiser Wilhelm II put down the English newspaper. So his

childhood friend had accomplished it, the long-planned invasion
of England, as it were.
Wilhelm lowered his reading glasses and added the newspaper to
a pile by his breakfast plate. He preferred the English newspapers
to the German ones. Fluent in English—his mother being Queen
Victoria’s eldest child—he had grown up in the shadow of his
relatives in England. But now they had lost their position of
power thanks to Edward Cornwall and his bloodless revolution.
The Tsar—also family—had recently lost his position of power
in a not so bloodless revolution.
The divine right of kings remained with Wilhelm and Wilhelm
alone. To be sure, his German Empire had always been
considered almost a matter for humor among his English and
Russian relatives. But now, Germany’s time had come.
Wilhelm’s grandfather had added new territory to Germany, as
had his father more recently. But those had been European
victories leading to an expanded Germany.
Wilhelm stared thoughtfully at the white marble walls of the New
Palace, his mind far away. It would fall to him to conquer lands
that his forefathers had never even stepped foot on.
 Prologue

Toronto
1860

S he was in a laudanum-induced dream. More of an intense

fantasy. Like many of Queen Victoria’s subjects, substances
like cocaine and morphine were part of her life, used to
manage pain. But today was the first day Anna had used it to dull
the emotional pain.
With the death of her stepfather, she was now an eighteen-
year-old doxie.
No, not yet. But soon. Soon, she would have to take to the
streets.
It was really her mother’s death that had ended both their
dreams that Anna would have a normal life. Her mother had
been the second wife of a prominent Toronto alderman. But her
mother had died of typhoid fever a year ago and her stepfather
had more recently died of a degenerative disease that the doctors
had been helpless to diagnose. Although he had been kind to her,
he had left nothing to Anna. All his money went to the son from
his first marriage. Understandable. Her mother’s had been a short

1
 Storm & Stress

marriage, only three and a half years. And Anna was an

illegitimate daughter of a woman who had come from one of the
slums surrounding Toronto. She had heard the derogatory words
the wives of the other aldermen had used to describe her mother.
But there was one last thing Anna would do before
descending into the only life that seemed to be open to her now.
She would go to Edward and ask him for help. He wasn’t her
brother; he wasn’t even her half-brother. But like his father, he
had been kind to her.
She had on her best corset and dress. Like her mother, she
had eschewed corsets when she had come of age. It was not a
habit of the women of Toronto’s shanty city to constrict
themselves for mere fashion. But today, she wanted to look like a
lady.
Anna choked on the dust kicked up by a passing horse and
cab and received a glare from a lady, a proper lady. She changed it
to a delicate cough into her gloved hand.
Somehow, she had to get to Edward’s dorm.
This was a different Toronto from the one she had grown up
in. This one had space, trees, even a sense of leisure. Her
stepfather had spent his career fighting other men’s visions of
Toronto as a London of the North; men who dreamed of
something denser, urban, every space developed and turned into
cold money.
She crossed Queen’s Park with its solid Romanesque
architecture. Where others preferred the clean comforts of the
modern, Anna felt safe among the old and in the sense that
others had lived their lives—lives made elegant by the passage of
time—between dark, wood-paneled walls.
But to her alarm, she quickly realized she was the only female
on the University of Toronto campus. Groups of young men
watched her with interest, much interest. One don was watching
her with wild-eyed disapproval, too shocked to speak.
But she must get to Edward’s room! She had no other place to
go in this city of her dreams and now, delusions.
She hurried on and up the stairs of the dormitory.
She had been to Edward’s room on campus once this year, at
the beginning of the term, when she and her stepfather had
delivered him to the university in their family’s annual solemn
ritual—clearly the only day when mothers and sisters were

2
 Prologue

welcomed on campus. Despite that Edward could come home

any time he wanted, living only four blocks away, Anna’s
stepfather always treated the beginning of a school year as if it
portended a year-long separation from his son. They had spent a
good hour in Edward’s room saying their goodbyes.
But today, Edward was not in his room. Three young men,
unknown to Anna, were lounging about on bed, chair and desk.
And the looks on their faces when Anna opened the door and
nearly fell into the room said that they weren’t expecting
company.
“I say, a doxie!” one of them burst out after the initial
moment of silence.
All of them seemed pleased by this sudden interruption of
their collegiate moment.
Anna was speechless. She hadn’t expected this and for a
moment, it filled her with dread and shame. Was it true what the
aldermen’s wives had said about her mother? That you couldn’t
hide who you were and that Anna was doomed to go the way of
her mother?
Not that her mother had been a doxie. Only a woman with a
child to feed and a heart to do whatever it took to do so.
She wanted to tell them that she was Edward’s sister, but of
course, she wasn’t. What was she, exactly, to the alderman and his
son?
Or what, for that matter, were women in Victoria’s England?
Wives or whores, nurses or actresses. School teacher if one lived
north of here in one of the small towns appearing along Yonge
Street.
“I’m here to see Edward,” Anna managed to say.
The young men exchanged looks that almost instantly turned
to comprehension.
“Edward! She’s here for that lucky Eddie!”
“Wrong bloody room!” agreed one of his friends, nodding
intelligently. “Let’s return her and meet him! Maybe they’ll let us
show him around town.”
“Edward lives here,” Anna said. “I’m sure of it . . .”
But unbeknown to Anna, she was on the wrong floor and the
Edward she sought was at this very moment, quietly studying a
law text right above her.

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 Storm & Stress

“He could show you a thing or two.” The young men had
stopped paying attention to Anna. “He probably knows the city
better than you and he’s only been here a day. Look, he’s already
gotten himself a doxie . . .”
The young men were disengaging themselves from the chair,
the desk, the bed. Anna sensed that to them she was nothing
more than a package delivered to the wrong address.
They were putting frock coats on over their white shirts and
trousers and reaching for hats.
And then they were hurrying her along the corridor.
I am a danger to these young men, Anna realized. Albeit, one they
didn’t mind engaging in, briefly. If it were discovered by anyone
in authority that they had anything to do with her being here,
they would be reprimanded or worse. But their fellow-students
were hooting and laughing as they passed, so they would be
heroes if they didn’t encounter that disapproving don she had
seen earlier. Then it was down the winding stairs and out into the
bright sunlight.
It was a beautiful day. The University of Toronto campus
covered 150 acres with plants and shrubs abounding more than
buildings.
Comments were being directed at Anna, or the young men, as
they headed across the commons toward the identical building
opposite. Anna didn’t understand most of the expressions,
although they were obviously ribald. The mildest comprehensible
comment was “Who’s the ladybird?” and Anna gathered from
others that dollymop was also an acceptable alternative for what
they thought was her profession.
The young men were appreciating the attention, achieved
entirely by serendipity. They seemed to think that Anna had
gotten the names of the buildings mixed up and whoever this
Eddie was, he would be so grateful to them for the cheerful
return of his doxie that the gates of Empire would open up to
them.
But first they had to navigate her through some obstacles.
Anna was baffled. This was a university dormitory, and yet,
there were two constables guarding the entranceway and no
young men passing freely. This was only mildly offsetting to her
escorts who circumnavigated the building until out of sight of
the constables, where they at once began to test the windows.

4
 Prologue

Finally, they found one that they could slide open with ease, and
once again, Anna was the package. One young man scrambled
through the window first and then she was lifted and pushed
through by the other two in a quick effort to get all of them
inside before being spotted. Then they were moving through
quiet corridors. The two dormitories were reversed, but in every
other way, identical and they were making for the room that
corresponded with their own. Except that this room also had a
constable guarding the door.
“Distract him!” hissed the young man with the greatest
leadership skills to the other two.
After only a moment of hesitation, one of the two called out,
“Hullo, blue bottle!”
It was enough to cause the man in the blue uniform to raise
his eyebrows.
“My friend, here, is a bit of a dipper,” he continued, nudging
the second young man. “I bet him a quid he couldn’t nick
something of Eddie’s. But he did!” He reached into a pocket and
waved a handkerchief. The two turned and ran.
The constable reacted by chasing them, right past Anna and
her now single escort.
Astounding, thought Anna. All for a used handkerchief. Who
on earth was Eddie?
Her remaining escort hurried her to the door and opened it
without knocking.
The young man standing by the window turned and his eyes
widened. Anna’s eyes widened too. He was about Anna’s age, well
dressed in a morning coat and trousers, and idly leaning on what
looked like an Indian lacrosse stick.
Anna was looking straight at one of the most recognized faces
in the world, Victoria’s own son and heir, Edward, Prince of
Wales.

When his mother, Queen Victoria, had come to the throne, it

had been a short three years since the city had changed its name
from York back to the original, native name for meeting place,
Toronto. It had still been surrounded by forest, with only
intermittent clearings. Three main thoroughfares had made up
the city—King Street to take you across the city, Dundas Street to

5
 Storm & Stress

take you west, and Yonge Street to take you all the way north to
the glittering waters of Lake Simcoe.
In those days, many visitors arrived not by coach, but by boat.
Toronto, built right on the edge of Lake Ontario, didn’t impress
every visitor. Anna Jameson, British essayist and wife to the
newly appointed Chief Justice in Upper Canada, wrote about her
new home, that Toronto, “was, thirty years ago, a wilderness, the
haunt of the bear and deer, with a little, ugly, inefficient fort,
which however, could not be more ugly or inefficient than the
present one.”
Clearly, Victoria’s son agreed with this because he said,
“Finally, something interesting in this outpost.” He leaned the
lacrosse stick against the window frame and came forward.
“Here we go, sir,” said the university student, bowing deeply.
“And a real topper she is.”
“I would say more of a toffer,” said Edward gravely, looking
Anna over. His voice was pleasantly English with a slight German
accent. His clothing was fastidious, but his eyes were droopy. Not
a handsome face. But then he smiled and Anna felt something
stir in her heart.
“Well said, sir! Well said!”
“What is your name?” the Prince of Wales asked Anna. He
was the first man to directly speak to her.
“Anna, sir,” she said.
“I must be going, sir,” said the student. “The constable will be
returning . . .”
Edward nodded, hardly interested, his eyes on Anna. Her
escort was forced to back out of the room, bowing the whole
way.
So much for a reward, thought Anna.
“Won’t you please have a seat?” said Edward, taking the plush
chair where the desk would normally have been and waving for
Anna to make herself comfortable on his single, but canopied
bed. Anna wondered which rich home in Toronto had been
raided for these furnishings.
“I regret I have nothing to offer you,” Edward said,
apologetically. “Mamma has instructed my keepers not to let me
have alcohol unless at dinner.”
“I don’t mind,” Anna said. “My mother was an actress, but she
never drank either.”

6
 Prologue

Actress. That’s what the alderman had always called his young
wife.
“I bet her shows are ripping,” said Edward, not noticing that
she had spoken in the past tense. “I wish they’d let me see some
of them while I’m here. It’s rather dull fare they have lined up for
me. There must be pretty girls in Toronto—well you’re proof
aren’t you?—but they have me dancing with people like the wife
of the Director of the Welland Canal.”
Anna laughed.
The photographs in the newspapers were usually of an
unsmiling young man with weak features, but here in life, Edward
was alive and she felt his vibrant energy.
Though young and a little bit shy, he seemed to be able to
cope with suddenly having a young woman arrive in his private
room.
He moved closer to her and she realized that he was going to
treat her like a doxie, rather than like the daughter of an actress.
Or maybe if you came from sophisticated London, it was all
more or less the same.
Anna hesitated.
Despite her earlier awareness that a life of offering her body
for sex would be the only recourse for her, she still wasn’t ready.
At this moment, it felt real. Too real. A doxie shouldn’t care
about the man she was required to be used by. And Anna cared.
Already, she was feeling the fumbling awkwardness of it as the
prince clumsily tried to figure out the buttons on her dress.
It wasn’t for her to decide either way.
The prince, though not yet a man of the world, was enough
of one to know what he wanted. To Anna, it finished almost
before it had started. Her corset didn’t even get loosened. She felt
nothing. But the prince was pleased.
And he was talkative now.
“They took me to see Niagara Falls. It was quite the show. A
chap named Blondin went across on a tightrope and offered to
take me over on a wheelbarrow. After that, it was an Agricultural
Exhibition. Not quite the same. The people here have been kind.
I suppose they love the mater, but I’m told 50,000 came out here
to cheer me on. Montreal, not as many, but I say, I’m quite taken
by the French. All they seem to do there is eat and dance. No
stuffy openings, but some long speeches, I’m afraid. And they do

7
 Storm & Stress

stare. I got to ride a timber slide in Ottawa. That was something.

After this, we’re off to the United States. Have you been? I say,
would you like to come back to England with me after that?”
Anna hesitated for only a moment before answering.
And in that moment, history changed.

8
 Chapter One

Toronto
present day

F elicity!”
I turn to see Toby.
He is behind me, coming down the stone steps of the
Humanities Building.
Toby is a lovely sight. He’s tall and confident. His hair is wavy
and dark and his smile is broad. He comes toward me with
assurance, putting an arm around me. His other arm has books
under it.
His embrace, although undoubtedly sincere, has a casual feel
to it. But then he intertwines our hands and I feel more
connected as we continue walking.
We are passing the Canadian-German Fellowship Hall, a place
neither of us would dream of entering. The students coming
down the marble steps are still speaking German to one another.
There isn’t a single citizen of Canada who isn’t able to speak at

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 Storm & Stress

least a few words in German, but amongst the Socialists, you will
never hear one of those words pass across our lips.
Toby glances at them before lowering his voice. “I received a
telegram. We have a lot to discuss . . .” Then he glances up.
It is a sunny day and many students are out enjoying it, but a
large black shadow has filled the sky, ominous and frightening.
Then I hear the hum of an engine.
My free hand clutches Toby’s arm. I can hardly believe what is
passing above us. A zeppelin. Certainly I have seen them many
times from a distance but it’s nothing to prepare a person for
actually standing underneath one. The shadow that it casts is
enormous. They don’t usually pass right over Toronto. It must be
someone important.
Toby continues on, holding my hand, giving everyone the
impression that we are a couple. Girls openly look up at him. It’s
at moments like these that I long to be just his and not to belong
to the cause. Would he even love me if it weren’t for who I am?
That’s a thought I always quickly push away.

Strikes. They’re the mainstream of the Socialist movement.

The Labour Emancipation Directive and The People’s Will are
both known for their work within the factories. Labour has no
representation in the King’s Parliament and that means that every
factory owner can set the hours and the wages of his employees.
The Labour Emancipation Directive and The People’s Will both
organize the daily strikes across Canada. Most of them achieve
next-to-nothing for the workers and they only last for a few days,
but it’s a gradual process. Wages go up by 25 cents an hour, the
work day is shortened from 11 hours down to 10 ½ hours.
The Sons of Freedom publish pamphlets and can be seen
distributing them outside of factories at quitting time. Their
objective is a call for worker unity. Not just one factory striking at
a time, but for ALL workers to strike at once.
Other Socialists work quietly to turn the worker’s guilds into
viable voices for worker’s rights.
There is another movement, one that supports all of the
tenets of Socialism and at the same time, preserves the memories
of Edward Cornwall. The Concerned Citizens originated in
London but has a small membership here in Canada.

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 Chapter One

But for Toby, the Party is everything. The (illegal) Communist

Party holds all of the groups together, loosely to be sure. We are
all opposed to autocratic rule, but Toby says that at this point, the
King isn’t the enemy. It’s our inability to create a working
manifesto so essential to our unity. When we are able to unite
under one declaration, we will at last be able to lead the
revolution. But first, ideology must marry organization.
So Toby spends his days and nights organizing, bringing the
different guilds and groups together, creating consensus. It
sounds vague but it’s actually productive—and it’s necessary. This
isn’t coffeehouse Socialism. Toby is creating a Party of
professional revolutionaries. The Communist Party will then lead
the Socialist movement into battle and then into power.
There is a network throughout Canada that weaves through
the schools and factories. Toby and the Party created it. Its
members include lawyers, doctors, veterinarians, mechanics,
agronomists.
It was created the year I came to the University of Toronto, an
organization to bring the message to the people. Soon. America
taught the world that sometimes a brutal revolution is needed to
break from the King. But we don’t want the harshness of a
republic where the strong survive and the weak sink to the
bottom. So Toby collaborated with the Sons of Freedom and
The People’s Will to take a message to the people. If we all come
together, it can be a gentle revolution and those at the bottom
will never have to be hungry again.
The people are stirring. Toby only hopes that enough of them
will be ready to rise when the time comes.
“It would only take a moment,” he says. “One moment, one
unified voice. But in that moment, everything could change.”
I believe him and so does everyone who hears him.
Under the floorboards of his bed is a box filled with the red
flags of revolution. When the people finally rise, we will be ready.
“The guildies will come over tonight,” Toby says. “Then we’ll
talk. I have to drop these off.” He indicates the books. “Then
we’ll get over to the park.”
We are passing a mustard yellow booth with glass and a
rotary-dial phone inside.

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 Storm & Stress

For some reason, our King thinks it’s less inflammatory to

have our phone booths imported from Germany than from
England.
I nod.
The guild members are the closest Toby has to friends. We are
all part of the guild of law students. Many Socialists study law
and labour issues. Our King allows no trade unions, so the only
hope for the workingman is to have a sympathetic—and
inexpensive—lawyer on his side in times of dispute.
We go up the steps to our dorm room. Anarchists and
Communists are expected to co-habit with one another, but this
is still the King’s Toronto. So I have my own room in a nearby
building, even if I hardly spend any time there. Toby and I share
his narrow single bed, but never in a state of undress. Not really
my idea, but I hardly want to be the one who pushes for more.
Toby is distracted by the pile of mail on his desk. I pick up
The Globe from the pile.
The Globe is part of Canadian history. One of John A.
Macdonald’s opponents, George Brown, founded it and it was
the voice of reform and republicanism in its day.
“Check the agony column,” says Toby, sitting down at his
desk. “I haven’t had a chance yet.”
I nod. The agony column has been used since Victoria’s day to
send out personal messages. The anarchists do it all the time. It
could be something simple like, “Jack, call home tonight. Your
brother.” And then everyone knows to meet at Jack’s pub that
night.
“What am I looking for?” I ask, sitting down on his bed.
“The usual,” he says, without turning around.
I flip through the paper reading the latest news. There’s been a
wolf sighting by the nuns of a convent on the outskirts of the
city. There are ads for business colleges and a veterinarian college.
Most pages have boating-related advertisements. The activities
hosted by the Royal Canadian Yacht Club—dinners, dances and a
regatta—are listed on one entire page. Aquatic sports occupy the
minds of most Torontonians this time of year.
The newspaper reports rather gleefully that despite prohibitive
legislation, many college men are swimming in the lake without
their bathing trunks, tossing them into a communal boat and
hastily dressing only if approached by a member of the

12
 Chapter One

constabulary. The Morality Department makes sure that such

shenanigans are not equal opportunity events. They will intervene
if a female is among the male students.
The Morality Department is also concerned, reports The Globe,
about the number of women who have exchanged the houses of
ill repute or the streets for simply luring in men by calling out to
them from their bedroom windows. Other residences of the
boarding house, as well as neighbours along the street, are
complaining about this brazen form of prostitution right in their
midst.
Several different articles quote a spokesperson from the
Morality Department—one about Chinese gambling, which is
bad enough, but that it is taking place in backrooms on Sunday
of all days. Drunkenness on the streets is also a big concern of
this department.
When I finally get to the agony column, I skim through the
enormous number of people who are willing to take in boarders.
Pages and pages of columns. I note that they are all downtown
addresses. It’s a wonder there is any need for student housing on
campus with all these rooms available. It’s the only way people
can hold onto a house in the city. It’s either that or get a home in
the suburbs and take a one-hour streetcar ride into the city
everyday, three hours if there’s snow. Still, I shouldn’t speak
against the streetcars. They are the transportation of the
proletariat.
The Globe reports, hardly bothering to hide its rage, that several
citizens have come to them with complaints of being arrested
and beaten by the constabulary for no other reason than being on
the wrong street at the wrong time. I mention this to Toby.
Toby nods and glances up.
“The more there is of that, the more I feel sure that it’s going
to happen soon. The working classes will rise as one against the
King. The Globe has always been on our side. And as long as the
constabulary in this town consider poverty a crime, the abuses
will continue. The King does nothing to stop it and in the end, it
will be his undoing. The days of Edward Cornwall will finally
come to Canada!”
I agree as I hand the paper, folded to the agony column, to
Toby. I haven’t seen anything noteworthy. Toby takes the paper
from me and skims it.

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 Storm & Stress

“Nothing today,” he agrees.

“That’s what I thought,” I say, going over to his bookshelf to
read the titles on the spines. It’s history mixed with law. For us,
what else is there? Toby has the best personal library on campus.
As he likes to say to anyone who comments on it, “My father’s
filthy commerce at least means I can have a decent library.”
Toby only went to university to please his father who owns
some kind of a distributing business and wanted his son to have
a business degree. But then Toby discovered Socialism and the
law—and me. And his father, to his eternal credit, didn’t disown
him. It all worked out, anyhow. With my Socialist contacts in
England, I gave him the address of a distributor in London who
specializes in English biscuits and now Toby’s father makes a
fortune importing them and selling them on the black market.
Like the phone booths, our King in Ottawa thinks that having
German-imported biscuits in the supermarkets is better for our
relations with the Kaiser.
I notice a slim volume with Edward Cornwall written on the
side.
“You’re crazy,” I say, turning it around so that you can only see
the pages, not the title.
He laughs.
“What would I do without you?” He stands and reaches for
my hand and then we’re back out in the corridor, hurrying to our
next engagement. I don’t know why I worry about a book on his
shelf considering where we’re off to now, doing what Toby does
best—stirring things up.

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 Chapter Two

W hen in Toronto, the King lived in a modest Georgian

home with his American wife and their one son. Only
one child. His wife, having produced an heir, said any
more children would ruin her figure.
His wife was the Queen, but King Albert knew she was not
the queen of the hearts of the people. The paparazzi loved to
photograph her and she was good copy for the newspapers, but
there was an almost imperceptible contempt about anything to
do with Queen Donna. She wasn’t one of the people and they
knew it. For an American, she was too regal, too haughty. They
would have all liked to see her come down a bit, although none
of them would have ever dared to admit it.
The King turned away from the window of his study
overlooking Queen’s Park. Queen’s Park in Toronto was not
named for his queen, of course. It was here long before that day
his great-great grandfather arrived in Canada, barely getting out
of England before republican voices were calling for his
execution.
Being Saturday, the protesters were all out in the park, voicing
their opinions to however big a crowd they could attract. The

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 Storm & Stress

missionaries wanted people to repent of their sins. Some people

were selling things; others were putting on a show to earn the
coins of the people. Today it was a juggler. Last week it had been
a children’s puppet show starring a king and a queen and the
queen had continually batted the king on the head with her tiara.
The children had loved it and from his window, the King had
chosen to ignore it.
Usually it was harmless enough, but the King was keeping his
eye open for one particular young Socialist who attracted a much
larger gathering than most.
So far, there was no reason to arrest the young man. He did
not openly speak of treason. He did not call for any solidarity
with other Socialists in the world.
Workers of the world, unite! It was a slogan all monarchs loathed.
It had brought down the Romanovs in Russia. It had left England
without a King.
And since then, the remaining royal families of the world had
learned to monitor all telegrams with assiduity and to keep any
scientific innovations that could be used by the Socialists to lead a
revolution from ever making it into the public domain.
But King Albert had made sure that his people had trains and
roads and movie theatres that played approved films. Beer in the
pubs. Food in the markets. For those who could afford it. A niggling
thought, he pushed away. His subjects were happy. It was just
those occasional ones who had to stir up things . . .
He wasn’t as ignorant as the Socialists of Toronto liked to
make him out. He knew rich and poor lived in the city. He had
even seen the sad-looking houses all along the streets of Jarvis,
Lombard, and Bathurst. He had passed through both west end
and east end slums.
But he had also seen the paved thoroughfares in the summer,
places like Bloor, Sherbourne and Spadina—where citizens of all
classes strolled with their young ones, enjoying the balmy night
air. He knew his own son occasionally even joined them, with a
friend and a private detective, and had experienced no sense of
antagonism.
Overhead, he heard the hum of an engine and glanced up. It
was that zeppelin again.
Kaiser Frederick had sent it over, direct from Berlin, as a gift
for the King. In a ceremony at the German Embassy, it had been

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 Chapter Two

presented to King Albert and been followed by an evening made

up of an eight-course dinner and three hours of speeches. But
since the zeppelin wasn’t the type of thing the King could just
take away with him, the blasted thing was still in the hands of the
German Ambassador who had a spacious compound in which to
house it.
King Albert would have preferred a dachshund as a gift.
Heights made him dizzy. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Anything
stressful made him dizzy these days, a fact that disturbed the
royal physician, so much so that Albert hadn’t mentioned the
mild twinges he’d been having in his chest, nor the numbness in
his hands.
Oh if only David would hurry up and marry and have a few
children. But the Crown Prince, though always with friends,
never seemed to meet anyone who would be suitable for the
throne of Canada.
Just the thought of the lack of marriage prospects was
enough to bring the twinges on his chest. The King pressed a
hand on his heart and tried not to think about it. He turned his
mind back to the scene out the window.
Ah, there was the young man, with that rather plain young
woman he always seemed to be with. His girlfriend, no doubt. He
was about to speak. Already, a crowd was forming. The King
wouldn’t be able to hear what he said from the window, but he
had intelligence officers in the park for that purpose. And they
had a thick file on the young man, Toby something-or-other.
One of his intelligence officers had reported to him that the
young man was a Christian, or at the very least, he used scriptures
to support his creed. When he had heard that, the King had been
strangely comforted. It was the first time he had heard of this
third brand of Christianity. There was the Kaiser’s militant
Christianity in Germany and the American’s republican
Christianity to the south. The King’s own Christianity was so
benign he hardly considered it a brand at all. But that there might
be this third type of Christianity gave him a vague hope that
there was just the faintest possibility that Canada might not get
crushed in a battle between the two giants.
It was a battle that had threatened Canada for over a hundred
years now.

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 Storm & Stress

Back in 1910, shortly after the death of King Edward of

England, one of Kaiser Wilhelm II’s loyal barons had declared
that Wilhelm was now the most decisive voice in the world. He
and the American President, Roosevelt, would be the masters of
history from now on. It had remained true to this day—Germany
and the United States.
As if to remind him of his place in the world, his personal
secretary entered the room and handed him a dossier for the
upcoming private visit of the Kaiser and his Kaiserin to Canada.
His personal secretary came and went so frequently that greetings
weren’t necessary between the two men.
The King opened the red leather binder to read what his staff
had assembled for him. Of course, this wouldn’t be his and
Queen Donna’s first meeting with the Kaiser and the Kaiserin.
Albert, Donna and David had been to Berlin in ’03 and the
Kaiser had made an official visit to Canada in ’05. In addition,
the Kaiser was a prolific letter writer and Albert rather enjoyed
his lively epistles that touched upon a staggering range of
topics—everything from politics in London all the way down to
the need to train young men in the manly art of outdoor survival.
This dossier was mainly an outline of everything that the
Kaiser and Kaiserin had done in the past year.
Donna would be expected to familiarize herself with the
Empress of Germany’s activities. Effie, in addition to being a
mother of six sons, kept herself busy. With amusement, the King
read how she had personally raised funds for and overseen the
construction of ten new Protestant churches in the capital alone,
as well as acting as advisor to an enormous list of other
Protestant charities. Donna wouldn’t have much to say about
that, thought Alfred.
In addition, the report informed him not to introduce the
Kaiser or the Kaiserin to any Catholics, Jews or divorced people.
The Kaiserin, in particular, had a very low view of people who
were divorced.
In fact, as he continued to read, the only safe topic seemed to
be family. It was widely known in Berlin that the Kaiser’s
Chancellor was currently in a state of disgrace and everyone
expected a new appointment any day. But family festivities were
always happy days for the Imperial family. For the birthdays of
the princes, anything wonderful could happen. This year, for a

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 Chapter Two

summer birthday, there had been a three-ring circus on the front

yard of the New Palace. For a winter birthday, there had been an
ice castle fortress and an ice cream sundae buffet. For the
Kaiserin’s birthday, there had been a full orchestra performance
in the Marble Hall of the palace. The Kaiser’s birthday always
involved a military parade.
Albert wondered what cobbled facts the Kaiser was receiving
about him and Donna and David. That they had had a quiet roast
beef dinner at New Buckingham Palace for David’s birthday?
That for the King’s birthday, his subjects had enjoyed a holiday
from work and the fireworks display on the lawn of the palace,
all probably with no thought of him? Would the Kaiser hear that
Donna had spent her birthday on a shopping spree in Montreal?
The Kaiser closed the dossier and turned back to the window.
In the distance, he could see the Toronto constabulary moving in
on the crowds and the young Socialist, in particular. They had no
reason to; no direct order from the King. The Toronto
constabulary just didn’t appreciate large crowds and their
potential for mischief.
The King was waiting for the very end. He had noticed a
peculiar aspect of these particular gatherings.
As the constabulary approached, there were usually several
people in the crowd who would rally for one final time, not
around the Socialist, but around his girlfriend, patting her on the
back or shaking her hand. The King couldn’t see what they
possibly got out of her presence. She didn’t seem to speak or do
anything in particular. He would have to get around to asking his
intelligence officers more about her.

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 Storm & Stress

20
 Chapter Three

Y es, it is true that a woman can excel in any field she

desires to,” Toby is saying to a crowd that is growing
increasingly larger the longer he speaks. “But she will
make half as much as a man. Her wages of $300 a week will
certainly cover her room and board, but then, if she is to ever—
perish the thought—need a new pair of boots, is she then to turn
to prostitution in order to obtain them?”
There is clapping. We are in Queen’s Park, within an arrow’s
shot of the Romanesque City Hall, as well as the King’s residence
when he’s in Toronto. As the crowd grows, I find myself further
and further to the side, until I am up against a statue of a horse
and rider. It’s supposed to be Edward, Prince of Wales, although
I doubt he ever posed for it. A small brass plaque tells me that
Prince Edward inaugurated this park when he visited the city in
1860.
“Our biggest rally yet is going to be tomorrow.” Toby is using
a megaphone to be heard. Toby is not the only one preaching in
the park on this Saturday afternoon, but he is certainly the most
popular. Torontonians are out strolling along the footpaths and
the older ones just keep on going, but the younger ones stop to

21
 Storm & Stress

listen. “The King’s Own Rifles are going to be marching along

Jarvis, Carleton, College and McCaul to the New Richmond
Street Methodist Church. That’s where we’ll meet them.”
There is murmuring in the crowd. Toby holds up a hand.
“Some of you will say that a good Socialist should never even
let his shadow fall into the interior of a church, but I say to you, a
Socialist should never miss a Sunday in church! A Socialist’s first
duty is to God, because ours is a just cause, ours is the right
cause!” He pauses slightly to allow for agreement from the
audience. None of them look like they like the idea of attending
a weekly church service, but it is a tribute to Toby’s bold
speaking-style that there is some nodding. “And secondly,”
continues Toby. “A Socialist must be everywhere that the King’s
man is! We must always be in his space. It is our job to make him
uncomfortable, to let him know we will not go away!” The
audience is nodding more vigorously now and there are some
laughs and some cheers. “I expect you all to be there. I do NOT
expect you to wear your Sunday best!” There is more laughter.
“Our God looks at the heart, not the outward appearance.”
There is some agreement in the crowd. So long as God is the
God of Socialism and not the toffs, most of them will stay on
Toby’s side.
Toby informs them that he will see them all outside the
church the next morning and the crowd starts breaking up. It is
just as well. In teams of two, Toronto’s constabulary are moving
along the footpaths, sending speakers and listeners along on their
way. Toby always has to keep his message short.
But he still lingers in order to meet with admirers who want to
shake his hand and exchange a few words. Many people hug me
or give me a high five.
If this were winter, we’d have to get back and study. But our
final exams were last week and so we can now just stroll along,
holding hands, like any other couple.
Except that we aren’t like any other couple. The world’s got to
change in a big way if we’re going to be together in every sense.
“Why do you always have to mention God?” I say.
“Not talking about him doesn’t make him go away,” says Toby.
“I don’t think Edward Cornwall would have liked it,” I say,
now moody because this conversation is a foregone conclusion.

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 Chapter Three

Toby always wins. “He always said that King Edward shouldn’t
bother going to church.”
Toby laughs.
“Edward Cornwall would have been fine with it. What he
objected to was the fact that King Edward was supposed to be
the head of the Church of England but he was a glutton and a
womanizer.”
He’s right, of course.
We stroll in silence. Toby will be with me until the end,
regardless of my opinions. That’s really the thought that I push
away. He stays with me because of my story and my life is really
the story of a king.
Actually, it’s really the story of two kings and one king-to-be.
Back, before the revolutions, in Russia, there was Tsar
Nicholas II. In Germany, there was Kaiser Wilhelm II. In
England, there was the reclusive Queen Victoria, elderly and still
in mourning for her beloved Albert who had died thirty years
earlier. So the public saw more of her heir, Edward, Prince of
Wales, than her. By the late 1800’s, he was a middle-aged man.
Wilhelm II was descended from warrior kings—both his
father and his grandfather had been busy in the 1800’s taking
land for the Fatherland. But Edward’s wife, Princess Alexandra,
was Danish and protested bitterly about Germany taking
Schleswig and Holstein from Denmark. Edward for the most
part, shared her viewpoint.
Nicholas II’s mother was also a Danish princess, one of
Alexandra’s sisters. Both sisters never forgave Germany for what
it did to their father, forcing him to make war payments after
taking half his kingdom. The two sisters dressed identically when
together to suggest English-Russian solidarity. When separated by
all of Europe, the two Danish princesses openly snubbed all
German nobility that had the misfortune to have to appear at
their respective courts. In both cases, the husbands chose to take
their wives’ sides, which in Edward’s case, meant going against
his mother’s official stand. Victoria was always in favour of
Germany since her beloved husband had been German and her
daughter was married to the heir to the German throne—the one
who had actually participated in the campaign against the Danes.
But the British public sided with Prince Edward—the Danes
were the victims of German oppression, courageous despite their

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 Storm & Stress

military weakness and righteous in the face of unprovoked

aggression.
When he was young, Wilhlem, the future Kaiser, had great
respect for his grandmother, Queen Victoria. But as time
progressed and it was clear that there was a plan (or a plot,
depending on whose side you took) to turn Germany into a
liberal constitutional monarchy, such as there was in England and
that it was his own mother behind it, (goaded on by her mother),
his “dear Grandmama” gradually became mockingly referred to
as “Empress of Hindoustan.” (Not that Wilhelm didn’t aspire to
being Emperor of India himself.) Edward, still heir to the throne
despite his own advancing age, was “that old peacock.”
Among his mother’s royal family in England, Wilhelm was
cheekily referred to as “William the Great” or “William the
Fidgety.”
The idea of racial purity came into vogue in Wilhelm’s day.
His circle of friends believed in German superiority and soon the
Jews were Wilhelm’s scapegoat, the “rabble” of Germany. They
were blamed for the rise of Socialism and the demands of the
workingman. On the other end of the economic stratum, the
successful ones were blamed for hoarding the wealth of
Germany. Jews were blamed when the press was critical of
Wilhelm. Even Wilhelm’s father’s death from throat cancer was
blamed on the Jews.
Jews were also blamed for the degeneracy of Edward’s
England, who allowed Jews into his inner circle of friends,
particularly the rich financiers who were quick to lend him money
when needed to cover his gambling debts. Believing that the Jews
were part of an international conspiracy to control Europe,
Wilhelm planned to invade England and put it to an end.
But the anarchists were rising in Russia. In 1881 they threw a
bomb at the carriage of Tsar Alexander II. He got out and then
was killed by another bomb thrown at him. Tsar Alexander III
came to the throne. His wife was the sister of Prince Edward’s
wife, and as a result, despite political enmity between Russia and
Britain over control of Persia and Afghanistan, the two families
were close. Alexander III died of kidney problems in 1894, but
even there, the kidney problems were probably brought on by an
incident six years earlier when anarchists derailed the royal train.
The roof of the train fell in on the royal family in the dining car.

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Alexander III, a bear of a man, held the roof on his shoulders

while his wife and five children were able to escape out of the
collapsing car, among them, Alexander III’s heir, Nicholas II.
When Nicholas’s father died, Prince Edward went to Russia
and was a great comfort to his wife’s sister and her son, now the
new Tsar. Edward organized everything and was well-loved by
the Tsar and his family. The two conspired against the ambitions
of Wilhelm, the seeds of hostility having already been sown
when Germany took Schleswig and Holstein from Denmark in
its bloody expansionist war.
But choosing Russia over Germany, both politically and
personally, was not a wise one for Prince Edward. Despite the
autocratic Kaiser and his militarily-minded circle of advisors, a
middle class was emerging in Germany not unlike the one in
England—one where the average man had a newspaper and his
own opinions on the matters of the day, whether the issues
affected him or not. By contrast, Russia was populated with
illiterate peasants and revolutionaries. There was no Russian
equivalent of England’s Lord Northcliffe, who built a newspaper
empire that kept people’s minds roving over a gamut of news—
trivial and significant.
The Russian people had no hope for reform. It could only
come by the will of the Tsar. By contrast, Britain had trade
unions and Parliament.
Victoria died in 1901 and Prince Edward came to the throne
as Edward VII.
Edward Cornwall. He seemed to come out of nowhere. And,
apart from his name, he had one important thing in common
with the King. They were both able to create a sense of
connection between the English people and the Russian people.
But whereas the king did it to spite the Kaiser, Edward Cornwall
did it to achieve a revolution.
In 1909, British Prime Minister Lloyd George remarked that it
cost the English government the same amount to support a duke
as it did to maintain two dreadnoughts, and the dreadnoughts
were easier to scrap when you didn’t need them anymore. King
Edward was not pleased with this comment that reeked of
socialism, but then King Edward died in 1910 . . .
We are back in Toby’s room. Coming down the corridor are
three of our guildies.

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 Storm & Stress

Toby greets them as they come in, while I brew some coffee.
They mostly ignore me. I’m essential to the movement but
inconsequential to the everyday matters. The guildies are eager to
share the latest with Toby.
“It’s just come in that the Kaiser purchased a hunting lodge in
northern Ontario a few months ago.” Micah is sitting on the edge
of Toby’s bed. “You know what this means!”
They all nod. This suggests a place for secret meetings.
“We knew the King was against us,” Matthew continues, “but
now with the Kaiser behind him, we could be in trouble if we
don’t act soon.”
“Protests in the streets aren’t enough,” says John. “We need
to have some real leverage.”
Toby glances at me.
“I think Felicity and I may be able to do something about
that.” He opens a desk drawer and hands something to me. I take
it. It’s the telegram. But before I have a chance to read it, Toby is
telling the others what it says.
“They’re worried in England. The Concerned Comrades see
the Kaiser’s influence everywhere on the continent. But what’s
even more troubling is that he’s building up his navy at Kiel and
that can only mean one thing.”
“The invasion of England,” murmurs Micah.
“But if we follow this to Iraq, it could change everything,”
Toby says.
My eyes widen and I look down again at what is in my hand.
But I can’t read it. It’s in the code that the Socialists use to send
confidential messages. The King James Bible, a book approved
of by both King and Kaiser, is the cipher with numbers
representing certain words in the scriptures.
According to Toby, the Middle East is simmering. The
Germans are heartless and the Arabs don’t like the Turks. The
Sanjaks of the Ottoman Empire are on the verge of turning
Communist—Mosul, Baghdad, Basra. They sent a message to
England for help. They promise that the whole Arab world chaffs
under Turkish rule and would rise up as one. The world’s oil
would belong to the Socialist cause. Persia and Arabia have only
survived as monarchies because of German support, but the
Germans are cruel to anyone who isn’t Aryan. Russia is already
making claims in Persia. If England is to have any share in the oil

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supply, she must act now. Only oil can provide the fuel necessary
for the type of navy that can fight German naval supremacy. It
could tilt any future war in favour of the Socialists.
“Well, you’re the logical one to go and meet with them,” says
Micah. “The Socialists will control the oil and the Kaiser’s navy
will be useless.”
“We’ll go west,” says Toby. “That’s the whole point. To stay
safe. The Concerned Comrades in England can’t risk crossing
Europe. There’s a good chance they’d be stopped along the way.
But we can go west to the coast and cross the Pacific. It’s an
American ocean and the Kaiser has no presence in it.”
“And what do you do when you get there?” says Micah.
“You’ll be fine in Japan and China, but once you hit India, the
Kaiser’s men will pick you up.”
“We’ll stay on the water until we get to Basra,” says Toby.
“Then it’s just a river ride up to Baghdad. No big deal.”
“And what if she dies of malaria in a dhow in the middle of
nowhere?” John jerks a thumb towards me.
“We drink a lot of gin-and-tonic along the way,” says Toby
grinning, looking over at me. I smile back though I’m a bit
stunned.
Baghdad! We’re going to Baghdad! Talk about the ultimate
expedition. But it’s disturbing that the Germans control India.
When Britain had to abandon India after the brief Great War,
Germany went straight in.
“And if we don’t do this,” Toby adds, “There’s a good chance
that Yonge Street will become Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse.”
There is general agreement on this point.
“We’ll need you guys to cover for us when we’re gone,” says
Toby. “Get one of the girls to be Felicity, and all that. Make sure
our names are everywhere. The King’s men can’t know we’ve left
Toronto.”
Another pot of coffee is made and the conversation turns to
how awful it will be if the King and the Kaiser make an alliance.
It is illegal in Germany to say anything bad about the Kaiser
so people there refer to him as “Siegfried Meyer”—since S.M.
stands for Seine Majestat—when telling amusing stories about
him. The really cautious call him Herr Schmidt when talking
about him.

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 Storm & Stress

Here in this room, a lot of hilarious other names with the

initials S.M. are devised for the Kaiser as the evening goes on.
But it’s also sobering. One of the guys reports that he read that
people who have openly spoken badly of the Kaiser are serving a
collective thirty thousand years in prison.
“It just confirms what we’ve suspected all along though,
doesn’t it?” says Micah. “This hunting lodge, I mean. And the
Kaiser’s navy. Do you think the King has been promised that he
will get his throne back if Germany conquers England?”
“As if the Kaiser would ever let anyone share his power,” says
John, shaking his head as he adds more sugar to his coffee.
“The King is used to being ruled,” says Toby.
There is general laughter. Our King in Ottawa is married to a
beautiful, fashionable—and if you believe the rumours, very
demanding—American wife.
“If you ask me,” says John, “there’ll be a war between the
Kaiser and the United States if the King isn’t careful.”
There is a murmur of interest at this new idea.
“I mean,” John continues, “the King cultivates this idea that
the Germans are our cousins and lets them have their naval bases
in Halifax in exchange for Canadian sovereignty. But I think the
whole thing could backfire on him. The Kaiser’s ego is limitless,
as far as everybody knows. With this new navy of his, how do we
know he isn’t going to turn on the U.S. too . . . ?”
There isn’t a man in the room who doesn’t have something to
say about this theory, but even with the coffee, I’m starting to
nod off. I drift off to sleep as the apocalyptic discussion carries
on well into the night.

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 Chapter Four

A narchists are like insects under a rug,” Kaiser Frederick

said to King Albert. “They must be hunted for and
destroyed.”
King Albert thought about insects under a rug. Or was it a
rock? King Albert’s German was as good as most, but the Kaiser
was speaking rapidly and the King was missing some words. He
knew his own German was spoken with a heavy English accent.
The Queen could hardly speak it at all, although she had had a
German tutor since coming to the throne. But then, Queen
Donna couldn’t even say a “Bonjour” in Quebec if her life
depended on it.
“Now, the Socialists are like sunshine,” the Kaiser continued.
“Easy to find but almost impossible to stop . . .”
Kaiser Frederick’s driving philosophy was that kings, big or
small, must stand together against all the democratic and
republican forces that would threaten their thrones.
King Albert glanced at his wife while the Kaiser advised him
on how to hunt down anarchists and diffuse Socialism, none of it
particularly practical. His wife hated the hunting lodge, he could
tell. She had used it as an excuse to buy a whole new rustic,

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 Storm & Stress

wardrobe, but then had been annoyed that there were no

photographers to present her chic, northern look to the nation.
Not that the visit was a secret. It was impossible to keep a visit
from the Kaiser a secret when he arrived in Halifax and then
sailed down the St. Lawrence in an imperial yacht the size of an
ocean liner and accompanied by a flotilla of Royal Hohenzollern
battleships, cruisers and destroyers.
But at least it wasn’t an official visit. If it had been, the Kaiser
would have expected a full tour of all the port installations,
munitions factories and army bases. He was the type of man who
took such an interest in all the details of the military. He would
have visited everything from the engine room of the navy’s
flagship, H.M.S. Victory, all the way down to the army latrines.
But King Albert had more to think about at the moment than
his wife’s peevish attitude toward the Kaiser’s hunting lodge.
(Besides, she had no reason not to enjoy herself. It might be a
hunting lodge, but it was stocked with the finest German wines,
cheeses from all over Europe, chocolates from Switzerland, not
to mention the famous sausages and savoury meats from
Germany. Their beds were covered in Belgium lace. The Kaiser
took pride in always playing the generous and elegant host.)
They had signed the agreement only this morning and already,
the Kaiser wanted to commence on rooting out the Socialist
elements in Canada. What he didn’t understand was that Canada
was a vast, mostly unpatrolled country where a wanted Socialist
could flee and never be found. Germany’s access to the sea was
limited to her northern border. When she closed the borders, she
could then turn inward until she found her man. But people
could seep out of Canada any number of ways. Three different
oceans could carry a man away before the King’s men were even
finished searching Toronto.
He knew the Kaiser wouldn’t have tolerated children’s puppet
shows in the park, with their gentle mocking and insinuation that
the Queen was the power behind the King. The Kaiser ruled an
Iron Kingdom and had court rituals and a dizzying tier system of
nobles and officials. By comparison, the King merely had
servants—although his wife made sure that the court was an
elegant one. The King kept busy with appointing ministers, trying
to balance merchants and artisans from the miniscule middle
class with the overabundance of lawyers and professional

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politicians who jostled with one another to fill the government

positions.
But the irritating Socialists liked to point out that the lower
classes had no representation in the government. An absurd
hypocrisy because King Albert knew most of the Socialists came
from well-to-do families and continued to live and eat like the
best of them, even while they preached Socialism. Many were
enrolled in institutions of higher learning—which meant that if
they refrained from turning into social agitators, they themselves
could actually aspire to government positions.
But King Albert hadn’t invited the Kaiser to Canada to take
his advice on internal matters. He had done so because American
pressure and German diplomacy demanded it. The Kaiser’s
Europe was bookended by Socialist England and Socialist Russia.
The Americans were committed to keeping Socialism from
spreading any further. If he didn’t stand with the Kaiser and his
growing navy, he could easily imagine the Americans moving
north and claiming they would defend Canada from the dangers
of a Socialist revolution. It would all be a pretense, of course. A
simple desire to expand the American Empire.
Because very few men could lead a successful revolution. That
was the secret of history. That was why monarchies tended to last
for hundreds of years. Even an inept king could keep his throne
by the simple momentum created by those who had ruled before
him.
Very few men. The King inhaled and then exhaled heavily.
There was that one young man in the park . . .
Kaiserin Effi came into the room and invited the Queen to
join her on the porch for lemonade. Donna had no choice but to
accept the invitation. The Kaiserin didn’t know about mosquitos
and black flies. Yet.
“How lovely and slim you look,” said the Queen, on their way
out of the room. What German she did know was the
conversational kind. But the Queen wouldn’t have wanted to
discuss German existentialism so it really didn’t hinder her. “How
do you do it?” The Queen, who eschewed meats and cheeses, had
already visited the kitchen to tell the Kaiser’s chef that she
wanted a small side salad for dinner. No dressing.
The Kaiserin smiled pleasantly, although unused to such
familiar comments.

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 Storm & Stress

“I do not eat the heavy foods,” she replied.

The truth was, the Kaiserin hardly ate at all. Her husband was
insistent that despite her six pregnancies, she should not turn into
a German housefrau. Of course, he had only good things to say
to any woman of that particular class on those rare occasions
when he actually met one, charming them with compliments and
telling his ministers that the Germany people were a healthy and
robust nation.
But despite the starvation strategy, the Kaiserin found it hard
to fight against rosy, round features and big bones.
While soldiers of the Canadian Army patrolled the perimeters
of the Kaiser’s 4000-acre property, the Kaiserin and the Queen
swatted mosquitos, sipped lemonade and tried to find light topics
for conversation.
The Kaiserin asked the Queen about her work with the
church.
The Queen replied in her marginal German that she had
attended a recent sale organized by a woman’s group. It was a
vague answer and the Kaiserin, who surrounded herself with
virtuous Christian women dedicated to good works, decided not
to pursue the topic.
“Donna, I should very much like to know where you
purchased that beautiful blouse,” said the Kaiserin.
The Queen was pleased.
Her shirt was plaid, not the kind worn by lumberjacks, but
boxes of grey, brown and soft lilac.
“We will have to go shopping together,” said the Queen,
leaning slightly forward and waving away a mosquito.
The Kaiserin listened politely to the list of the exclusive stores
that the Queen favoured. Shopping for clothing was something
the Kaiserin never did. Her husband chose her outfits for her.
“And your son, the Crown Prince, he is not interested in the
Canadian wilderness?” asked the Kaiserin. She had met the tall,
pale and thin teenager briefly at the train station when they had
arrived in Ottawa. Such a contrast to her large boys, all sturdy in
construction and vigorous in play.
“He studies theatre in the capital,” said the Queen, sounding
as if she wasn’t sure whether to be proud of it. It was something
they kept from the general public, saying that it was for security
reasons that people shouldn’t know what and where the Crown

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Prince studied. When he had entered university, New

Buckingham Palace had issued a statement asking that the press
respect his privacy so that he could experience university like any
other student. “He gets it from my brother,” she added. “He
makes films in California.”
“How nice,” said the Kaiserin politely. Her sons were all avid
soldiers-to-be, the younger ones playing with toy models of all
the regiments in the German Army, the older ones enrolled in
military school and interested in all the goings-on of the barracks
adjacent to the New Palace in Potsdam where the family lived for
most of the year. Like their father, all her sons enjoyed regular
dinners with the officers in the mess. She would have loved to
have had all her sons with her now. They would have been using
their father’s enormous acquisition of Ontario bush to play war
games. There had been tears—mostly from the younger ones—
when they had been told that the Kaiserin would be
accompanying the Kaiser on his brief visit to Canada. Of course,
weeping was only permitted in their mother’s boudoir. Each of
the boys’ military advisors were expected to take strong action if
the royal princes ever cried, tears being considered unmanly for a
German officer.
“He is a good boy I am sure,” said the Kaiserin, still thinking
of her boys. “He fears God and loves his people, yes?” Every
night, before bed, the Kaiserin read the Bible to her sons and
then they said their prayers, always making sure to pray for
wisdom to govern so great a people as the German nation.
“I’m not so sure I agree with his general outlook,” said the
Queen, lapsing for a moment and not realizing that she had
spoken in English. She was wishing she hadn’t left her cigarettes
in her purse. Maybe the smoke would have driven away the
mosquitos. “I’m afraid David is a bit distant from us these days.”
The Kaiserin was quiet, her limited English not withstanding,
she didn’t know what to say. She knew all sorts of rumours
surrounded the Queen of Canada—that she was the real power
behind the throne; that she had only had sex once, the time she
had conceived David; that David loved his nanny more than his
mother and was known to visit her more than he did New
Buckingham Palace. But people always said unkind things.
Someone had once remarked to the Kaiser that the Kaiserin was
dull and insignificant. The Kaiser had pounded a table so hard it

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had cracked and said, “Dull, yes. Insignificant, no!” Of course,

dull was what the Kaiser expected of her. He didn’t want a wife
causing any kind of sensation.
The ladies returned to the sitting room—driven inside by the
merciless insects—to find the Kaiser instructing the King in
military matters.
In Königliches Schloss in Berlin, their home for ceremonial
and state occasions, the Kaiser surrounded himself with military
men and while there, his daily luncheon was a long table of men
in splendid uniforms between women in silk floor-length gowns.
In contrast, Georgian House in Toronto and New Buckingham
Palace in Ottawa were generally host to men in suits and women
dressed by the same designers as clothed the Queen.
“Sometimes it is enough to put on a good show,” said the
Kaiser. “Your military presence must be increased, particularly in
Ottawa and the bigger cities . . .”
Ottawa, the nation’s capital, was a political town, hardly in
need of a greater military presence. It had been selected by his
great-great-great-great grandmother, Queen Victoria, for it’s
interior position, away from the menacing ambitions of
America’s Manifest Destiny.
“Perhaps along the border,” murmured the King, revealing his
greater fear. The last time Canadians and Americans had engaged
in actual battle against one another was in 1814 and the King
wanted to keep it that way. That time, the Canadians had repelled
the Americans.
The Kaiser wasn’t listening. Long-used to ferreting out the
enemies within, he could hardly imagine the continual threat of
being a monarch sharing a nearly 9,000 kilometre-long border
with an ambitious republic.
“We are in a battle, Albert! Anarchy wars against religion,
order and morality. You need to start with passing some anti-
Socialist legislation. Parliament’s a pig sty but they can do some
good for you.”
“It’s not that simple,” murmured the King. “You can’t legislate
against Socialism because then it opens a can of worms.
Suddenly, everyone is talking about wages and working
conditions. It creates enormous dissatisfaction.”

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“For pity’s sake, man!” The Kaiser leaned forward. “Without

legislation, what are you left with to face the strikers? Fire hoses
and then cartridges!”
“My Minister of the Interior seems to work it all out,
somehow . . .” Mostly by putting strike leaders in prison,
legislation or no legislation.
“But you are the King, Albert! Not your Minister of the
Interior! Only you can truly know the soul of your people! It is
we who carry the responsibility before God!” The Kaiser
thumped his own chest.
The King envied his certainty.
“And you must destroy those wretched Nihilists. Show no
more mercy! They’re worse than the Socialists. At least the
Socialists haven’t entirely thrown away their Christian
principles . . .” The King nodded and murmured his agreement.
The Anarchists stood against his government, but the Nihilists
stood against every established authority, whether ordained by
God or men, claiming that everything was meaningless. “Get rid
of them all, Albert!” said the Kaiser, firmly. “They are a cancer in
your kingdom. Do you want to see New Buckingham Palace
turned into an apartment block for Party leaders . . . ?”
The fate of old Buckingham Palace.
But the truth was, Ottawa was not London or Berlin or St.
Petersburg.
In Russia, Tsar Nicholas II’s Winter Palace in St. Petersburg
had been turned into the world-renowned Hermitage museum.
His summer retreat at Lavadia was also a museum. Peterhof
Palace, styled after Versailles, had been preserved in royal style
and was a tourist destination. Stroganov Palace now contained a
waxwork collection of the Tsars of Russia. Alexander Palace had
been converted into an orphanage, then a naval command centre
and was now in the process of being turned into another
museum, this one dedicated to the final years of the fallen
Romanov dynasty. The Kremlin in Moscow where Nicholas II
had had his coronation ceremony, after being stripped of all
Tsarist memorabilia, had become the residence for highest Party
officials. Enormous country estates belonging to Nicholas II and
his family had also been converted to museums shortly after the
Communist revolution, their grounds now used for the pleasure

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 Storm & Stress

of strolling proletariats. The King doubted his modest residences

would amount to as much in the event of revolution.
The King couldn’t imagine the Kaiser even for a moment
allowing the thought to enter his mind of Stadtschloss in Berlin
being converted into Party apartments or a national museum.
The King and his small family had visited the Kaiser and
Kaiserin back in 2003. Located at the end of Unter den
Linden—Under the Linden Trees—the Kaiser’s 650-room palace
in Berlin had impressed Donna enormously. She had come home
and complained for a year about the shabbiness of Canadian
culture by comparison, pointing out to her husband that Canada
was enormous by comparison to Germany and should have
enormous palaces, not just glorified manor homes. The King had
pointed out to her that at least they could eat hot meals in
Canada. The kitchen was a mile away from the dining room at
Stadtschloss.
And for all his talk about stamping out Socialism, the King
knew the Kaiser never believed for a moment that what had
happened to the Tsar could happen to him.
Immediately after the revolution and his abdication, Tsar
Nicholas II and his family had been moved to Alexander Palace
in the idyllic village of Tsarskoe Seloe. The King had a morbid
fascination with the story of the fall of the Russian monarchy. At
first, they had been allowed to live in peace, under house arrest,
but in more or less the same conditions as always. This had irked
the people, still in the middle of a war with Germany and
suffering hunger and cold, so the Provisional Government had
told them they would be relocated further into the Russian
countryside. The family was ordered to pack their belongings and
be prepared to leave in the night.
Of course, when you’re the richest man on earth, it’s hard to
pack all your possessions into one suitcase.
The Tsarina and her daughters, with the aid of the remaining
servants, had managed. He knew his own wife, Queen Donna,
wouldn’t have been able to do it in a single night. She had two
rooms dedicated to her wardrobe and a whole walk-in closet for
her jewelry. But the former-Tsar of All Russia had left his royal
home wearing a Colonel’s field tunic, his wife and daughters
wearing simple grey dresses.

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From Tsarskoe Seloe just outside of St. Petersburg, they had

been taken to Tobolsk in Siberia, and from there, to their final
residence in Ekaterinburg where they had ended up being
executed by the local soviets before the White Russians could
sweep in and restore the Tsar to the throne.
The Kaiser would hardly take an interest in such past events.
After all, the Romanovs were a failure. Prussian might had
prevailed despite the Socialist upheavals of the early twentieth
century.
The King didn’t have an equivalent of Prussia. He had
Ontario, of course, the seat of government power. But his
military was scattered along the border and his navy had three
coasts to patrol. There was no court filled with strutting generals
and admirals for the King of Canada to take comfort in like there
was in the Kaiser’s Prussia.
Most of the monarchy had had to be reinvented since coming
to Canada. The pageantry that had used Buckingham Palace,
Windsor Castle, St. James’s Palace, and Holyrood House in
Edinburgh as backdrops had been converted into a more
meaningful form of rule—the proverbial iron fist in the velvet
glove. Real power rather than the trappings of power and the
memories of power.
He still had the aristocrats to uphold him even though all of
them had lost their land holdings in England and the ancient
dynasties that had come to Canada had had to turn wilderness
into new ancestral homes. They had lost some of their prestige in
the transplant, but they had acquired tenacity from surviving a
revolution, a sharper edge and a determination to hold onto
power.
There was a deeper, more pervading Canadian aristocracy
made up of mainly Scotsmen who had preceded the arrival of
the King and his family and had little respect for English rule.
They had stubbornly held their ground—and their power. So it
was to them that the King made concessions in parliament—they
were the merchants and the moneymakers, the kind who built
bigger department stores and factories rather than bigger homes.
“Now, what is your Jewish situation?” the Kaiser asked,
leaning forward.
“As far as I can tell, the few that there are make money and
keep to themselves,” said the King.

37
 Storm & Stress

“The Semite’s preoccupation with money is a dangerous

one . . .” The Kaiser leaned back again to expand on this.
The King hid a smile. Even if most Germans considered the
Canadian Intelligence Service to be a bunch of dummkopfs, his
agents had uncovered that Jewish bankers in Germany were
routinely lending enormous sums of money to both English and
Russian Communist governments. Some of it might be
ideological sympathy—God knew the governments of both
Communists countries were filled with clever Jews—but it was
more likely about the millions that such transactions made for
them. The Kaiser was said to be incensed by their lack of
concern for the Fatherland.
King Albert let the Kaiser ramble on, wondering if he knew
that the King’s own banker was a Jew. The King had even been to
one of their synagogues and had been impressed by their piety.
As far as he could tell, they threatened no one. They were either
furtive men in black coats moving back and forth between home
and synagogue or well-dressed men in soft grey pin-striped suits
who so deftly handled his personal finances.
But even in the wilderness of Canada, the Kaiser seemed to
be a man who needed enemies.

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T he King’s Own Rifles is a lovely site.

I’m not supposed to appreciate it, but I do as they
come marching down the crowd-lined College Street in
their navy-blue uniforms with red trim, complete with a
regimental band and bugle corps.
The people lining the streets are cheering them on, but the
Socialists are waiting outside the church. I’m a bit tense. There
are at least 650 soldiers in the parade and about the same number
of Socialists, but the King’s Own Rifles have, yes, rifles.
Toby isn’t here. He left early, before I was even awake. Micah
and Matthew came to get me for the rally and they have been
standing right beside me ever since.
The Socialists’ only strategy seems to be to prevent the King’s
Own Rifles from entering the church. The pastor is standing at
the top of the steps, holding a sheaf of papers and looking
nervous. I don’t blame him.
And then, from the other direction, comes Toby.
“Good old Toby!” says Micah. Toby is at the head of an
enormous crowd. They are not a robust-looking people, but are

39
 Storm & Stress

thin and poorly dressed, residents of the shantytowns that

surround the entire outskirts of the city.
For a moment, the supporters of the King’s Own Rifles turn
their attention to these new arrivals. There must be at least a
thousand of them. Toby has led crowds of this size before in the
workers’ parades. The government grimly tolerates the monthly
parades down Yonge Street where each participating guild
marches under its own banner.
The massive crowd is moving peaceably forward and all I
know is, there is no way we can all fit into that church. My guess
is, the King’s Own Rifles would take up the entire main floor of
the building and if there’s a balcony, it might hold a couple of
hundred more, but that’s it.
As Toby arrives with this new small army, the pastor steps
forward and waves for everyone’s attention.
“I have an announcement, good people,” he says, clearing his
throat. “This is to be read in all the churches today and for less
God-fearing citizens, will be in tomorrow’s newspapers.”
The crowds on both sides are quiet.
“His Royal Majesty, King Albert has announced a favourable
alliance with Kaiser Frederick of Germany to rule their spheres
of influence in such a way as to bring the greatest benefit to their
respective citizens . . .” There is a murmur in the crowd. People
are looking at one another, either pleased, or among the
Socialists, horrified. The poor seem indifferent and begin to drift
away. The news will not improve their lives, but it will probably
do little to make it worse.
“All assets of Canada and Germany will be placed at the
disposal of this alliance, to bring and maintain peace and order in
each nation’s sphere of influence . . .”
“We have to leave for Iraq, now,” says Toby. I am startled. I
didn’t notice him. His voice and manner is urgent. I understand.
Socialism will not sweep across Canada with an announcement
like this. The King will not fall so easily now that the might of
the Kaiser’s new navy is behind him.
I nod, thinking that this is the end for today’s rally, but Toby
turns away from me to push through the crowds and up the steps
of the church. He roars out some questions.

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“And who will pay for this new world order? Who will pay for
the maintenance of the Kaiser’s navy? For surely you do not
think this means peace?”
He has the people’s attention. The pastor wants to continue
speaking, but Toby continues.
“This means war! War against England! War against Socialism.
War against anything that stands in the way of the King and the
Kaiser! And that war will cost . . .” He dramatically surveys the
crowd and then points his finger to the drifting poor. “You!”
He takes a step down to be closer to the crowd.
“It will be a beer tax, to be sure. It is always a beer tax when
the King wants to add a new regiment or buy some new
submarines.”
The poor are returning, nodding, murmuring that this is true.
“The might of the King and Kaiser will rest on the weary
shoulders of you who are already over-burdened!”
He has convinced them and now this mass of people who
only came to see a show are starting to move menacingly towards
the King’s Rifles.
An additional tax on beer. The poor man’s only consolation.
This could get ugly. Then Toby is back by my side, grabbing my
hand, and we are running. Like Lot’s wife, I look back and I see
the King’s Rifles holding their ground against the fury of a mob.
How long will it take before it becomes necessary to turn their
weapons against these outraged people?
But even if it turns into a massacre, it will only be a minor
skirmish in a greater war.
Because we are not running away from it. We are running
towards something. Rather, we are running back to Toby’s small
room to gather what we can, quickly, to take us to the deserts of
Iraq where maybe, just maybe, we will be able to start a
revolution.

“What do you think the King will do?” I ask, the next day
while we sit in our compartment, waiting for the train to depart
from Union Station.
Toby has pulled down the blinds of the narrow window.
We are frequent travellers of the train. Every year, there is a
Party congress meeting in a different Canadian city. The workers
are in the cities and they are the strength of the Party.

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 Storm & Stress

We are in a second-class compartment, though if we chose,

we could go third-class where it is simply rows of passenger
seats. So far, we are alone in this compartment that seats six.
Socialist or not, I think Toby is hoping we’ll remain alone. He is
reading the paper and the Methodist Church Riot is the front-
page headline.
“If he confers with the Kaiser, he might actually pass some
labour legislation,” says Toby, turning a page. Thankfully, no one
was killed, but several of the King’s men and even more
Socialists ended up in the hospital with more than bruises.
“Maybe not right away, but eventually, he’ll have to. That’s the
German way. Wilhelm the Second was insane, but he wasn’t
crazy. It’s the same thing all over again. Kaiser Frederick knows
he has to have the Socialists on his side if there’s going to be a
war, and of course, building a navy is preparing for war. Wilhelm
the Second knew how to speak to the Socialists, give them what
they wanted to hear. He, more or less, learned their language and
then in his speeches, created a sense that they lived in a socialized
state. I think Frederick will teach our King to do the same.”
The train begins to move and Toby and I both exchange a
look of relief, no one has joined us. But then the door is flung
open.
“There you are.” The man standing in the doorway is young
and grim-looking. He is dark-haired, medium height and dressed
as a worker, but with flair—a silk scarf knotted fashionably
around his neck and a cap set at an angle.
“Lucian,” says Toby, looking bemused.
“Thought I’d find you in third-class,” says Lucian, looking
around as if taking in the ostentatious luxury of the second-class
compartment, before sitting down beside me and across from
Toby.
“Well,” drawls Toby, still with amusement, “it is a long
journey.”
“Old habits die hard,” says Lucian, crossing his legs. “Born
into money isn’t easy to get over. Born into poverty is what
makes me fit for the struggle.”
Toby leans forward.
“My friend, it’s the factory-worker who knows real suffering.
He doesn’t see the sun for 12 hours a day in the summer and
never in the winter. The revolution will begin with him and if you

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think setting off a bomb or two in the cities makes the slightest
difference to the cause, you’re out of your depth. The King’s men
love the challenge of ferreting out your kind.”
It’s true. The public devours the entertainment provided by
the noble King’s spies hunting down the filthy anarchists and
putting a stop to their murderous plots. Even the wretched poor
gather around the television sets in the pubs and watch the shows
churned out by the CBC
“Your problem is you’re dull.” Lucian is scornful. “Benefits
for new mothers. Sick pay. Workers’ rights. How dreary it all is!
Every man in his heart is on the side of the anarchist.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” says Toby, leaning back. “It’s
not enough to tear down the old. One must be ready to build the
new. A revolution comes to nothing if it doesn’t offer people real
change.”
Lucian ignores this, instead, turning his scorn on me.
“And you think she will be able to help your cause?”
“Go back to third-class,” says Toby.
“And if I do,” says Lucian. “How will you know that I haven’t
set a bomb to go off in second-class?”
Toby sighs.
“So we’re stuck with you then, are we?”
Lucian pulls a ticket out of his pocket and waves it at Toby.
“Actually, I am travelling first-class today. Not all supporters
of anarchy are dirt poor.”
He stands to go.
“Why did you find me?” asks Toby.
“To see for myself that you really are going west,” says Lucian.
He smiles. It isn’t pleasant. “Three members of the provincial
Parliament will be assassinated . . .” He looks at his wrist. “. . .
shortly. My patron suggested we attribute it to you. But since you
are clearly nowhere near the city, it would be difficult to make a
plausible accusation. Oh well.”
He passes through the doorway of the compartment and is
gone.
My mouth has dropped open.
“Oh don’t worry about him,” says Toby, glancing at me before
returning to his newspaper. “You should know by now he’s not
our enemy.”

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You could have fooled me. I’ve never liked Lucian and I fear
that if the Socialists did come to power, we’d still have to deal
with people like him.
“What kind of patron supports someone like that?” I ask.
“You know how he is,” says Toby, still behind the paper. “He
finds some rich old man with enemies and convinces him that the
anarchists will do his dirty work for him for a hefty price, so long
as they get to take the credit and declare it a political act. The rich
old man loves it because it’s hardly likely to be traced back to him
and he gets rid of the people who stand in the way of his
business or his ambition. And the anarchists get to travel first-
class.”
“Silly world,” I say.
“Very,” agrees Toby. “But the truth is, we need people like
Lucian. These aren’t the days of Edward Cornwall. The King
thinks that if he doesn’t legalize trade unions, the grubby masses
will stay loyal to him and not turn to sedition.”
It’s true. King Albert thinks that if there had been no Labour
Party in England, the revolution there would have failed, so he’s
eliminated all the legal ways of bringing about change. Labour
has no representation in Parliament. It’s asking for revolution.
Politically, Canada is not unlike the Tsar’s Russia. In 1906, after
some serious scuffles with the anarchists, the Tsar finally allowed
an elected assembly to be formed, the Duma. The Duma
immediately called for reform—redistribution of land, an end to
capital punishment, and equality for all in Russia regardless of
class, race or gender. The Tsar almost immediately dissolved the
Duma.
Toby is absorbed in the newspaper so I’m left to watch the
passing scenery. Boathouses of all sizes line the shore of Lake
Ontario and the lake is a colourful scene of sailboats, rowing
teams in training, yachts at anchor.
Once out of the city, Ontario scenery is pretty much the same
as it’s been for a hundred years—small towns, farmland, lakes,
trees. Prince Edward probably looked at the same scenes on his
one and only visit in 1860 when he was a young man.
King Edward’s England was a time of elegance for some and
poverty for most. In Parliament, the Labour Party called for
reform. But what the workingman called fair wages and benefits,
the upper classes called a society on the brink of anarchy.

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Into this world came Edward Cornwall, a middle-aged man

who was said to have a youthful appearance, a booming voice,
and very quickly—a loyal following. Primarily, he spoke outdoors
in the parks and public places of London.
In 1906, he called for Londoners to join the men marching in
the streets of Berlin and St. Petersburg.
In those days, there was a balance of power between King
Edward’s England, Kaiser Wilhelm II’s Germany and Tsar
Nicholas II’s Russia. Kaiser Wilhelm was Edward’s nephew by his
sister Vicky and Tsar Nicholas was married to his niece by
another sister, Alice. But when it came to politics, all three rulers
put political considerations ahead of family connections and the
rivalry to have influence over Europe and Africa and Asia was
intense.
The Great War broke out in 1914. But in 1917, when the
Russian Revolution erupted, the Russian Communists made a
separate peace with Germany. England fought on alone and at
the time, it looked like all the pre-war calls for change would get
buried under patriotism . . .
Porters are moving up and down the corridor of the train
calling out that it is the second seating for dinner. We stand and
make our way through swaying corridors to the dining car.
Once seated at a table for two, Toby’s eyes roam over the
other diners in the car.
Two men, in particular, are a concern to him, I realize. They
are well dressed and out-of-place in the second-class dining car.
“The King’s men?” I whisper.
He nods.
“Most likely.” He leans forward. “There’s no reason now to
take the long route to Iraq. If we’re going to be stopped, it could
happen just as easily in Vancouver as it could in Berlin.”
I nod.
“Although, if we can,” he continues quietly, “I’d just as soon
shake those two off. When we get back to our compartment,
we’ll carry on as if we’re just preparing for the night. There’s one
last stop in Ontario before we cross the border to Manitoba.
We’ll get off and hope they think we’re still on the train.”
His rate of eating doesn’t accelerate. The must important
thing is to act normal and to seem to be oblivious to being
followed.

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 Storm & Stress

I always enjoy meals on trains. Tonight, it’s grilled salmon

from British Columbia, roasted red potatoes from Prince Edward
Island and green beans from our own Ontario, along with a white
dinner wine from Germany.
When it comes time for dessert, we linger over the desert cart
and drink our coffee slowly. When we exit the dining car, Toby is
holding my hand.
But our leisurely pace disappears once we’re out of the dining
car. We practically fly through the train, back to our compartment
to grab our knapsacks. I can already feel the train slowing down
for its final stop before a straight run through the night.
We move out into the corridor. A porter is disappearing into
an end compartment to pull down the berths as the train pulls
into the station.
Only a few people board the train and no one but us exits
onto the now empty platform. We hurry into the small station in
order to avoid being seen from the train windows and stay low
until the train has resumed its journey and disappeared into the
night.
It is a cold and quiet station. There is a small ticket booth but
no one mans it and we spend an uncomfortable night shivering
on a wooden bench until dawn when a man arrives with keys and
opens the kiosk for business.
Toby purchases two tickets on the next train east, a journey
that will take us all the way to Halifax.
This is not a luxury train, but one that handles cargo and there
is only one passenger car, not with compartments, but rows of
seats that only recline slightly as a concession to sleep. But after
such an uncomfortable sleep in the station, it is easy to doze off,
and by evening we are in Halifax.
Halifax’s entire harbor is given over to naval matters. Before
Toronto, I lived in Halifax with my parents, but then the
Concerned Comrades in England sent a delegation to insist that I
get a proper education, even if it was at a King’s institution. They
suggested the University of Toronto. My father went along with
it, as he always does with anything the Concerned Comrades put
to him, and despite my mother’s tears, I was sent by train to
Toronto, all funded by the organization that safeguards the ideals
of Socialism and the memory of Edward Cornwall.

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Our family has been in the care of the Concerned Comrades

long before I was born. We were protected and nurtured by the
people who knew that the fervor of the days of Edward
Cornwall would sooner or later give way to lethargy and that the
ideals of Socialism would need protecting even after it had been
legislated into everyday life in England. When my mother was
young, there was talk of telling the world the truth about my
family, but as she grew older, they found her to be apathetic
about her supposed duty to history and the future. Even after she
married an ardent Socialist, her only interest was in raising me
and keeping us fed with home-cooked meals from her enormous
garden. So my education came primarily through my father—my
father, who in his day, was so much like Toby and guarded me as
if I were a princess. I have been in the care of people all my life.
Battleship after battleship is lined up in the harbour, ready to
launch into the Atlantic. In addition, there are freighter ships and
rows of enormous passenger ships, all gleaming and proud to be
part of the continual flow of goods and people across the ocean.
We book a passage on one of the ocean liners for the next
day—destination Calais, France—and then find ourselves a small
room in one of the many hotels and rooming houses along King
George’s Way that runs parallel to the harbor. We could spend a
night at my parent’s home but I don’t want to worry them to
death with the news that we are crossing the Kaiser’s Europe and
travelling deep into his Eastern Empire.
The next day, we board the RMS Olympia. Again, Toby has us
in second-class. We are in a double room with bunk beds and a
private bathroom. If we were in third-class, any bathing would
have to be done at the end of a narrow hallway in a communal
bathroom.
To be honest, I don’t think Toby sees any reason to travel
third-class. It’s his desire that first-class and third-class be
abolished and replaced with a universal middle class. It’s
anarchists like Lucian who thrive on the extremes.

While those in the first-class dining room partake of an eight-

course meal that includes consommé, eggs Florentine, grilled
mutton, roast beef, veal & ham pie, lobster, apple meringue, and a
wide selection of fruits and cheeses served along with hock or
claret, we in second-class are offered a modest four-course meal

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with half the selection and a pot of German coffee with our
simple torte. In third-class, they are eating stew made from the
leftovers and custard for dessert.
In first-class, they dress-up for dinner and have a full orchestra
playing in the background. In third-class, they wear the clothing
they boarded in and have a fiddler playing a jig in the corner.
Second-class is caught awkwardly in the middle. People like Toby
and me don’t dress up because, well, we never do. And there are a
lot of people like us. But there are also people who aspire to first-
class and make a point of putting on a dinner jacket and tie or a
long, shimmering dress. Music is provided by a string quartet. We
lack the spontaneity of third-class where they can dance a jig to
the fiddler or the elegance of first-class where they can waltz to
the orchestra.
But no matter what class you’re in, there are card games after
dinner, the air thick with smoke and conversation. Toby and I
check out the second-class library.
“Light fiction,” says Toby, scornfully, after surveying the
modest selection.
I take his arm.
“Let’s just get some air,” I say. It’s a whole different world, this
ship. No one knows who I am. No one cares that Toby is the
most effective spokesperson for Socialism in the King’s Toronto.
Maybe if we can just stroll the promenade like any other couple,
we can find out if we have what it takes to be a real couple . . .
We have five days alone together. Apart from the wireless
room, we are cut off from the world. Though the ocean liner can
send and receive telegrams 24-hours a day, no one knows that
Toby is aboard the Olympia so no one can send him anything.
But I underestimate Toby’s ability to spread Socialism and
sunshine wherever he goes.
A lone young man is leaning against the railing. And the next
thing I know, Toby is talking with him. The young man is
complaining about the toffs who have an unhindered view of the
ocean while second-class and third-class have to peer around the
lifeboats to see the water. He’s exaggerating. If you squeeze by
the lifeboats, you can stand by the railing and watch the ocean.
It’s only from the deck chairs that most of it is blocked.
“Have you seen it up there?” he asks Toby. “I had a look
around before we set sail. It’s all mahogany and marble. Their

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smoking room looks like Versailles. Ours looks like a provincial

railway station.”
Toby laughs.
“It may be all hardwood and marble up there. But the souls of
men are the same no matter what class they’re in.”
The young man, who later introduces himself as Peter, doesn’t
agree, but nonetheless, joins us in our walk around the
promenade. And when we part, he and Toby have an agreement
to meet again in the dining room in the morning.
Despite the close quarters of our cabin, there is no intimacy in
brushing our teeth in the sink and then climbing into our
separate bunks.

“. . . But I don’t understand why you can still hold onto

religion,” says Peter, the next day, over scrambled eggs, Canadian
bacon and biscuits, pouring himself another cup of coffee from
the pot on the table. “Didn’t the Russians throw away religion
years ago?”
The second-class dining room is humming with conversation,
although all I’ve done so far is listen.
“They threw away religion because the Tsar was the head of
the church,” says Toby, his plate filled with fruit. A kind porter
passed on a tip to us to go with the fresh fruits and vegetables at
the beginning of the voyage since by the end, it will be canned
goods for the second and third classes. “Do you remember
Kaiser Wilhelm II?”
“Vaguely,” says Peter. “Time of the Great War and all that?”
Toby nods.
“He called on his people to join him in a battle for religion,
order and morality against the powers of revolution. His
assumption was always that God was on his side. Now . . .” Toby
leans forward. “I don’t mind the idea that God may have allowed
him his position of power, but I think it’s like the parable of the
talents.”
“The parable of the what?”
Toby has to backtrack and tell him about Jesus’s story that
each man receives a number of talents, or coins, and that each
man is expected to use them in such a way as to gain the same
number more.

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“So, again, as Jesus said, to whom much is given, much is

required. The same is true of our leaders. And they’re wrong
when they call me a Godless anarchist. I want to see justice. I
want to see food on every table. The early church was the same.
Every man sold his belongings, if necessary, to share with those
who had needs. The King in Canada is like a Herod or a Caesar
of the Bible. The truth of the early church rolled like an ocean
through the kingdoms of the world and in the end, social justice
prevailed in the hearts of men. May it be so again! . . .”
Peter doesn’t look convinced. But Toby quickly discerns that
Peter is gloomy on this voyage, not because he feels sorry for the
poor, or feels helpless against the powerful machinations of the
rich. He just wants to be one of them.
But by the time our breakfast plates and the coffeepot are
empty, Toby has convinced Peter that it is Socialism that is the
answer, not lusting after the glittering baubles of the rich. In his
convincing way, he makes the case that a redistribution of the
wealth of the world is in the best interest of everyone—rich and
poor and everyone in between.
Peter is in awe. I’ve seen that look before. Why haven’t I seen this
before?! his eyes say. Purpose! A reason to live! A cause to struggle for!
And Toby has a new disciple to instruct.
That’s when I know I’ve lost Toby for the duration of the trip.
Honestly. What did I think would happen?

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 Chapter Six

O n the deck of the imperial yacht, impishly named

Britannia, the Kaiser and Kaiserin were taking in the sea
air.
They had remained in their spacious staterooms for the first
day at sea, mostly discussing their recent visit to Canada out of
earshot of the hundreds of members of Britannia’s crew.
“Albert is a gentleman,” was Effie’s conclusion.
“He is concerned about all the wrong things,” was the
Kaiser’s.
Now they were by the railing, watching the endless ocean and
discreetly continuing their conversation.
The Kaiser was tugging at his tie. Usually his valet adjusted his
tie, but today he had dressed in the Kaiserin’s stateroom and he
had put it on too tight. Effie, who always travelled with her
personal maid, had her hair done up with diamond hairpins
which sparkled in the sun. Despite the luxury that came with
being a Kaiserin, Effie still managed to look just like herself,
which was never anything too glamorous, but she was always
presentable. Not like that Queen of Canada. Frederick hardly

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knew what to make of her. Exquisite, but not easy to rule. For
that matter, the King didn’t even seem to try.
“It’s the son I’m worried about,” said the Kaiser. “Not
strong.” He shook his head. “Not strong at all.”
“He studies drama,” said the Kaiserin.
The Kaiser snorted.
“And just one heir. Such foolishness.” He thought of his own
six sons back in Berlin. A thought blew in, staying around the
edges of his mind. If something were to happen to the King’s
son . . .
His mind was already running through the entire scenario. The
King’s son is abducted. The King receives a ransom demand
from, say, the Socialists. Yes! The Socialists. The King pays, but
the insidious Socialists kill the Crown Prince just to be
spiteful . . . No more heir. Instability ensues. The Kaiser steps
in . . .
He turned away from the ocean, unseeing eyes now on the
promenade. He didn’t really like the idea. Plans made in secret
had a way of coming out into the open and he would lose his
high moral ground when they did. Kaiser Frederick did things
openly. He was the Kaiser of a military-nation, one who faced its
enemies head on in battle, not a nation of devious undertakings.
He ruled by the grace of God. It was his moral obligation to do
things honorably. Ridding the world of Socialism was honorable.
Abducting a fellow monarch’s son was not.
“He has no military training,” said the Kaiser. “I specifically
asked.”
The Kaiserin murmured her agreement that this was
unacceptable. At the age of six, each of her sons had received his
own military advisor. A program of vigorous physical training
commenced. At ten, they received a regiment of their own and
were expected to wear its uniform on all formal occasions. At
fifteen, they became officers and were given command of
twenty-one men. By eighteen, they would be commanding the
whole regiment.
Every German uniform, whether it was Army, Navy or
Airforce, had “Gott mit uns” sewed onto it. God with us. It was
incomprehensible to the Kaiser that the King seemed vaguely
uneasy by their military discussions. It could be his wife, the

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Kaiser thought. Or it could just be that he wasn’t of the caliber

of manhood that Germany took pride in.
“Did you know that he gardens?” said the Kaiser.
“The Crown Prince?”
“No, the King,” said the Kaiser. “He talks to plants. He says it
helps them to grow.”
The Kaiserin nodded sympathetically. Not a manly activity.
She had an enormous flower garden behind the New Palace in
Potsdam and oversaw an equally splendid vegetable garden,
neither of which her husband had ever stepped foot in, although
he enjoyed eating the produce and was kind about commenting
on her floral arrangements in their private quarters.
“He doesn’t get outside enough,” said the Kaiser. “Not
enough exercise.”
“The King?” said the Kaiserin, puzzled.
“No, the Crown Prince,” said the Kaiser. “That is why he is so
pale and thin.”
The Kaiser regularly played tennis and football with his boys.
He would also cycle with them around the graveled grounds of
the New Palace, although he drew the line at joining them in their
circus tricks, since, like all boys, they rarely used things for their
intended purpose.
“He used to be such a mischievous child,” said the Kaiserin.
“Remember when they visited us in Berlin in ‘03 and he came
down the stairs on a tea tray? And how he would continually ring
the bell for the servants?” The Crown Prince of Canada had
made an enormously positive impression on her sons.
“Yes, he showed such promise then. Did you enjoy your time
with the Queen?”
“Yes,” said Effie, slowly. She hadn’t, but she didn’t know what
answer her husband wanted.
“She strikes me as a dangerous woman with her American
ways. And she is clearly the power behind the throne. That was
Nicholas’s problem. His wife ruled,” said the Kaiser, proving that,
contrary to what the King of Canada thought, Kaiser Frederick
did know the story of Tsar Nicholas II’s fall from autocracy.
“As I understand it,” said the Kaiserin carefully, “Alexandra
was desperate for a male child and fell prey to faith teachers of
the most dubious kind.”

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“Yes, yes,” said the Kaiser impatiently. “And then when she
finally got her son, she fell under the influence of that horrible
Rasputin thinking he could heal the boy of his hemophilia. It
really doesn’t matter what the issue is, the Anarchists use
whatever they can to undermine the people’s respect for the King
and his right to rule.”
The Kaiserin murmured her agreement. She and her ladies-in-
waiting were above reproach—all devoted to good works for the
German people. The Kaiserin wouldn’t allow any woman into her
inner circle unless she was free of any scandal of impropriety.
Even divorced women weren’t permitted at her teas and garden
parties.
“I’m amazed no one’s tried to assassinate him,” said the
Kaiser, thinking back to King Albert. “His security is horribly
lax.”
In Berlin and Potsdam, the Kaiser had a bodyguard of a
hundred men under orders to shoot-to-kill any individual who
attempted to penetrate the private chambers of the Kaiser and
his family. The Kaiser’s military police monitored Nihilists,
Anarchists and Socialists from Calais to Constantinople.
“It may just be that no one wants to assassinate him,” the
Kaiser decided. “They certainly try to assassinate me,” he said
with satisfaction. “At least his navy is in decent shape. Although,
he keeps too many ships in the Great Lakes. Now that we have
an alliance, he can stop fearing this hypothetical American
invasion.”
The Kaiserin nodded. Her husband wasn’t afraid of the
Americans. He had already restored a European monarchy to
Mexico. Republics vs Monarchies. That was the game her
husband had always played. The German Empire covered over a
quarter of the world’s land and ruled the same number of its
citizens. Beyond that, it was a matter of making favourable
alliances with weaker-minded rulers in order to bring their
nations into the German sphere of influence.
We must take Germany to every corner of the world. It was
something the Kaiser said often to his generals, his military
adjutants, his wife, usually emphasized by a pound on the table
with his fist.
“I don’t think much of him as a man. He’s a ninny. He
whimpers on and on about the Americans.” The Kaiser shook

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his head. “He frightens far too easily. If you ask me, he’d be fit to
live in a country house and raise turnips.”
The Kaiser turned his attention to the sea, some would say, his
overbearing attention. It was impossible to say from his stern
look whether he approved of the sea or not today.
The Kaiser suddenly clapped his hands together.
“Oh! How good it will be to get home! I wonder how many
trenches our boys have dug in our absence?”
The Kaiserin smiled. Her boys had a tendency to turn the
palace lawns into fortresses of pounded dirt. Obliging gardeners
filled bags with sand to add to their fortifications. Family and
close friends knew better than to give gifts to the boys that
weren’t military-related, consequently they had a constantly
growing collection of toy guns and cannons to defend their
installations.
“I do not want Affie in military school,” the Kaiserin blurted
out. It was something that had been distressing her for weeks
now. “Or Fritz. They’re far too young.”
The nursery was the Kaiserin’s domain and the Kaiser rarely
interfered. He had been lax about putting their two youngest into
the military academy just because he feared the effect it would
have on his wife, justifiably so, as it turned out.
“Not today, Effie!” he said. He knew it came out with a force
more appropriate for the barracks than for a marriage. But his
wife was becoming tiresome about this topic and since he had no
weapon against her tears, he preferred to head off the argument
before it started. He should have known better.
“If not today, when?” his wife demanded.
It was true. Within days, they would be back at Potsdam and
the Kaiser would be inaccessible to his wife for most of the day.
Over the years, he had deliberately encouraged the belief that
matters of the state could not be interrupted for matters of the
nursery. The truth was, the Kaiser welcomed any interruption
that would take him from his ministers with their minds on such
numbing issues like grain tariffs. Any interruption, except from
his wife.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice softening. It wasn’t true,
of course. His mind was already made up.
But for the moment, it seemed to do.

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“OK,” said Effie. “Thank you, Frederick.” She took his arm.
It suggested trust.
Frederick patted her hand and was glad that at that moment
the gong sounded for lunch.

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W e pass through customs quickly, thus allaying our fears

that the King’s men may have telegrammed Europe to
try and stop us.
Peter embraces Toby before disappearing into a group of
young men and women. He is part of a troupe of University of
Ottawa students, all with the Drama Guild and all bilingual, who
are doing a tour of the small towns of France. He has told us all
about it. In addition to the usual Shakespeare dramas, they are
putting on a production of Maria Chapdelaine, the story of a
French Canadian woman who loses her true love, a lumberjack,
and then must choose between two other potential husbands—a
factory-worker who will take her to America or a farm boy who
can only offer her a life of hard work. The story, although written
a hundred years ago, offers the Drama Guild all sorts of political
zest. The factory worker becomes a godless Socialist. The
lumberjack is the illusion of love. Maria’s choice, the farm boy,
becomes the only right choice. Duty and sacrifice are what make
a nation strong.
Except now Peter doesn’t agree with the interpretation that
the factory worker is a godless Socialist.

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We watch the Drama Guild board a bus that is waiting for

them and then Toby turns to me.
“How about we go from here to Berlin by zeppelin?” he says,
grinning. He’s turns to look at the airfield with its enormous
hangers.
“Can we?” I say. In Canada, only the German nationals and
the most loyal of the King’s subjects seem to manage to be able
to get tickets for a zeppelin.
“There’s no one around to tell us we can’t,” says Toby.
We are not the only passengers of the Olympia who are
heading for the zeppelin that is now rolling out of one of the
hangers. Clearly their itinerary is in sync with the ocean liners that
land at Calais because within half an hour, we are all on board
and the doors are being closed.
The interior of a zeppelin is compartmentalized. Along one
side is a strip for a dining area, along another is a strip for a
lounge and in the centre are private rooms. We do not pay extra
for a private room and take a seat, instead, in the lounge.
“From Berlin, we’ll take the railway to Baghdad,” says Toby,
speaking softly.
The Berlin-to-Baghdad railway is famous, finished shortly
after the Great War.
“Sounds romantic,” I say.
“Our brothers in Baghdad say there’s only one reason for its
existence and that’s to move troops into Iraq to crush the
Communists.”
Of course, Toby doesn’t see the romance.
“They claim all of Arabia is ready to rise up now,” he says.
“We can finish what T.E. Lawrence started.”
He tells me how in the Great War, the British T.E. Lawrence
led the Arabs to independence—at least, partial independence—
from the Ottoman Empire. After the British Revolution, the
Ottoman Empire, including Iraq, came under German control
and Arab independence was never discussed again.
The engines of the zeppelin are humming and soon we are
rising in the air. It is unlike the feeling of being in a plane. It is
more like floating.
Drinks and snacks are available from flight attendants, but for
an additional cost. Toby buys us each a coffee and a croissant.

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“That’s one thing the Germans do well,” he says, sipping

appreciatively from the white china. “Good coffee.”
I agree. My eyes are on the scenery. Unlike a plane, the
windows of a zeppelin passenger compartment are large enough
and in fact, seem designed to make it easy to see the ground.
The green fields of France and then Germany suggest a
bucolic and peaceful Europe. But it doesn’t prepare me for
Berlin. I have never seen Berlin, but immediately, I know, this is
the capital city of an empire. Whereas in King Edward’s day, it
was London that was the centre of the civilized world, now it is
the Kaiser’s Berlin.
And not just the current Kaiser. Even at this height, I can
make out a stone likeness of Kaiser Wilhelm II on horseback.
We float at the edge of the gigantic metropolis of
monuments, churches, spacious parks, steering well clear of
gleaming marble buildings that reach to the clouds. The
zeppelin’s landing ground is beside one of the city’s many
enormous railway stations.
When we come down and step out onto the crisp, green grass,
I feel grubby and unworthy of this civilization that values order,
cleanliness and efficiency. Toby must feel the same. He mutters
something about the east not being so gleaming white and
hurries us straight to the railway station. But even in that short
walk, we are not allowed to forget that this is Kaiser Frederick’s
Berlin. His photo is in shop windows, his face is on the front
pages of most of the newspapers and an enormous sign
welcomes us to the Kaiser Frederick Station. (Not that the
German people would name it after him while he still lives, but
there have been many other Kaiser Fredericks in German history.
Interestingly, when Kaiser Wilhelm II was alive, he presided over
the construction of innumerable monuments and building
projects named after his grandfather, Kaiser Wilhelm I.)
Toby purchases us second-class tickets all the way through to
Baghdad, a large expenditure. Our train won’t leave for several
hours, but we can board now if we like.
Despite his declaration that we could be arrested as easily in
Berlin as in Vancouver, I don’t think Toby wants to be arrested in
Berlin, so there is no question about passing time in this bustling
city. Our place is on the train.

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Every compartment has sleeping berths. This is a journey that

will take days.
The train will depart at 5:53 p.m., and Toby leaves the
compartment only once, to purchase some sandwiches and
coffee. There is a dining car, but the porter has informed us that
the first meal will not be served until lunch tomorrow, although
we can expect coffee and rolls for breakfast in our compartment.
It is a relief when the train pulls out and there are no men in
suits on board keeping an eye on us, at least, as far as we can tell.
The train settles down for the long night, the lights in the
corridor dim. After a line of people to use the lavatories,
everyone disappears into their compartments.
The next morning, there is a knock at the door and Toby hops
off the top berth to answer it. It is the porter with the promised
coffee and rolls. Toby accepts the silver tray and shuts the door
with his foot while I open the blinds. We are passing through
majestic mountains. It is a stunning view to wake up to.
“The Alps,” says Toby, putting the tray down on the wee
dressing table and biting into a roll before pouring himself a
coffee from the pot.
“Switzerland?” I ask, disoriented.
“Italy,” he replies as we pass through a short tunnel and are
temporarily in darkness, causing Toby to overflow his coffee cup.
Over breakfast, I watch the mountains and lakes pass by.
There is a stop in Milan in the middle of the morning and by
lunch we are in Venice. We appreciate Venice from the dining car
as some passengers come aboard and many more disembark. We
are back in the dining car for an afternoon cup of tea when we
stop at Trieste. This is the final stop before the long run through
the Balkans. A train has a dulling effect and after dinner, I am
already dozing off in the compartment, only vaguely aware of a
stop in Zagreb in the middle of the night. By the time the porter
comes to the door with our second breakfast of coffee and rolls,
the train is pulling into Belgrade.
By lunch we are in Nish, in Serbia.
That night, there is one more stop at Salonika. The next
morning, after our third breakfast aboard this train, we are
pulling into Athens. I am starting to feel stir-crazy. Many
passengers disembark at Athens. Enviously I watch as they

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stretch their legs in the morning sunshine and head out followed
by porters pushing their luggage on dollies.
It isn’t until the next morning that we arrive in
Constantinople.
Constantinople is really a German colonial city, where young
blond soldiers patrol the streets and the stations, we learn as we
disembark. The train stops just short, on the edge of the Golden
Horn where we have to catch a ferry to actually arrive in the city
proper. Two of the German soldiers cross over on the ferry with
us and whether this is normal, we don’t know. But they continue
to follow us to the massive European-style Hyderpasha Terminal
where we move with the crowds and try to find our train to
Baghdad among the many tracks.
We are thrown off by the fact that the train we are looking for
is actually called the Taurus Express. It takes us an hour to figure
this out, after talking to porters and station guards, a process
involving a lot of questions and unintelligible answers and even
more gesturing. Finally, we are pointed to our train. A travelling
German who is boarding the same car assures us that it is the
train to Baghdad.
The two soldiers from the ferry have been behind us the
whole time and as we settle into our compartment—with them
two compartments down—Toby remarks that we should have
just asked them which train it was to Baghdad.
“They are following us, aren’t they?” I say nervously.
“I think so. If they know we’re going to Baghdad, it’s logical
they would try to stop us.”
Our second-class berth can seat and sleep up to four people.
As the train begins to move out of the station, we think we have
it all to ourselves, but the door to our compartment is opened
and a fair-haired, young man drops into the seat beside Toby.
At first, I think he is German. But when he speaks, he is
clearly English.
“Sorry to intrude on your love nest, comrades,” he says. “But
the only other choice was a pair of potatoes.”
Toby laughs.
The Germans are called potatoes by the English Socialists.
“No worries, comrade,” says Toby. “We’re happy to have you.”
The young Englishman is pleased to find himself among fellow
Socialists and he and Toby immediately begin talking of the

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Socialist movement in the east. Like us, he is going on to Iraq,

drawn by the purity of their mission. He introduces himself as
Antony.
“We’re soft in the west,” he says. “We’ve lost the fire. The east
is about to blaze and I want to be there.”
“Are you going all the way to Baghdad?”
“By train?” Antony says, peeling an orange from his knapsack
and offering us some slices. “No, comrade. You couldn’t pay me
to take the train all the way to Baghdad. The potatoes made it for
the Turkish soldiers. The cars are cramped. There’s no food or
water. The sanitation is non-existent. The ruddy thing is always
breaking down and passengers sit for hours in the blazing desert
sun. The Arab tribes often sabotage the tracks. Then the
passengers have to get out and walk to the next station where
they load them onto open carts. Even if the tracks are in good
shape, sometimes the train can’t make it up a hill and everyone
has to get out and walk alongside it until it gets to the top.”
Toby and I are both listening, wide-eyed.
“No, I’m taking the Nairn,” concludes Antony. “Couple of
Kiwis started it after the Revolution. The run a clean bus service
straight across the desert.”
“That sounds like a good idea, comrade,” says Toby,
thoughtfully. “We’ll join you.”
“Glad to have you,” says Anthony, finishing his final piece of
orange and wiping his hands on his pants.
“The only problem is, those potatoes two compartments
down are following us,” says Toby.
Antony accepts this with hardly a blink of surprise.
“OK,” he says. “When we get to Damascus, you stay on
board. You’ll have to do something crazy like jump once the train
is moving. But if you can pull it off, the potatoes won’t be able to
follow you and once you get to Baghdad, there are a thousand
alleys behind every main road. They’ll never find you.”
It’s a slightly risky plan, but Toby agrees that it’s the best we
can do under the circumstances.
We share a dinner in the dining compartment before turning
in for the night. We will be in Damascus by lunch tomorrow and
I want to be well rested. I am nervous about the whole escape
from the train, but Toby and Antony are too busy enjoying each

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other’s company, talking about the glory days of Edward

Cornwall and the current situation in Germany.
I sleepily listen in.
Antony talks about how the Jews have been fleeing to
England since the days of Wilhelm II. I know from reading that
Wilhelm II was an anti-Semite who considered the Jews to be a
poisonous mushroom on the German oak tree, as he put it. He
blamed them for the Socialist menace in his Reichstag and openly
declared to his English cousins, “There are far too many of them
in my country. They want stamping out.”
Antony and Toby are discussing this because some of the
Jews have returned to ancient Babylon, as Iraq once was, and are
now part of the Socialist unrest there.
“The Chief Potato will pay for it, though” says Antony, about
Kaiser Frederick. “He’s made it a policy of making Jewish life in
Germany difficult and now they’ve moved east. The Jews are
great organizers. They were behind the revolution in Russia.
They’ll pull it off in Iraq, too.” Antony yawns, as he climbs up
into his berth.
“We have to make sure they do,” says Toby, still alert and
earnest. “The current Kaiser has a mad brilliance to him and he’s
backed by Christian factions in America. The Kaiser believes
himself to serve God and the Americans believe him to be the
only thing saving the world from global Socialism.”
“And King Albert is married to an American . . .” says Antony,
temporarily reviving at the seriousness of it all. “And he’s made
an alliance with the Kaiser . . .”
Toby nods.
“Exactly. The Socialists in Canada need a revolution in Iraq
and we need it now.”

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 Chapter Eight

T he Queen had another one of her migraines.

The royal physician had already visited her in her
boudoir at New Buckingham Palace to administer the
chloroform that would help her sleep through some of it. He had
left a small bottle of morphine for her when she awoke.
The King was left to face the official functions of the day
alone.
The only time the Queen seemed guaranteed not to have
migraines was on the days she was scheduled to meet with her
fashion consultants and personal designers.
In the morning, he was doing a tour of a new armaments
factory. For lunch, he was hosting the visiting mayors of the
province of Alberta. In the afternoon, he was attending a drama
production at the University of Ottawa, not one of his son’s, but
it was hard to refuse anything from the university and department
that the Crown Prince was part of. In the evening, there was a
new film, set in the north. Some sort of drama centered on an
Inuit community. Not the sort of thing his wife would have
enjoyed, but he found it all mildly interesting.

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The King would have envied the robust quality of the

Kaiserin except that the Kaiser had privately confessed to Albert
that his wife would take to her bed for days with the same malady
as Queen Donna.
The first Queen of Canada, England’s former Queen Mary,
had been a healthy woman and a great support to King George
after the family had to flee to Canada in 1918. She had been a
popular Queen, known for her good works during the Great War
and for her unflagging willingness to meet with people who had
suffered deprivation as a result of the conflict. She had organized
the women of England to knit socks and sweaters for the troops.
St. James Palace had been filled with collection items to aid the
morale of the boys at the front. The people had started saying
that the King was George the Fifth, but the Queen was Mary the
Four-Fifths. The monarchy had fallen despite her.
When she had come to Canada, she had carried on as usual,
always looking regal in silk dresses and long strings of pearls, but
never failing to meet the people and share their concerns. If they
talked about their children, she shared photographs of her own
children and commiserated with them on the challenges of
motherhood. She had learned everything about her new
country—the type of crops that grew well, the type of animals it
bred, the subtle differences between the various provinces and
territories. Queen Mary was probably the reason the monarchy
had stuck in Canada. Though an English rose, she had bloomed
like a common dandelion, a necessary quality in a rugged
wilderness interspersed with cities.
The Kaiserin seemed to be a good sort, the King thought, as
he shaved in his private bathroom, his face and torso surrounded
by the gold, ornate frame of the mirror.
A mother to her people.
He knew his wife was glamorous and the press liked that, but
that sort of thing was better for a Crown Princess. The Queen
should be a mother figure. It made it harder for the
revolutionaries to sling mud.
About the only thing his wife had in common with Queen
Mary was that they had both been crowned with the same 2200-
diamond crown that Mary had thoughtfully managed to bring to
Canada with her after the revolution.

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He pushed these thoughts aside and after putting on the suit

his valet had laid out for him, he went along the short corridor,
down a flight of majestic winding stairs and into the state dining
room where breakfast waited. The Queen never arose this early
even when her head was clear, so the King was used to a meal
with just the morning papers for company. After breakfast, he
would meet with his private secretary, sign whatever papers had
to be signed, discuss any world events that might affect Canada,
before heading out to fulfill his schedule.
He and his private secretary were in the middle of an
unspoken disagreement over his recent signing of the treaty with
the Kaiser. The King’s private secretary considered the Canadian
parliament to be the one thing that kept the country from falling
into the hands of the revolutionaries, but the Kaiser had
frequently referred to the Canadian parliament as “a pack of
unmitigated noodles.”
The Queen couldn’t stand his private secretary, considering
him to be almost as bad as a revolutionary, but that’s why the
King had hired the man. Whereas all the other men around him
told him what they thought he wanted to hear, his private
secretary always told him what he needed to hear . . . and he
knew what the people in the streets were really saying. Today was
no exception.
“You wouldn’t kill a cat,” murmured his secretary as he passed
the King some white cards gilded with gold trim—
congratulations that were sent out to people who had been
married for 50 years or who had turned 90 years-old.
“I beg your pardon?” said the King, looking up from his desk.
They were now in his private office.
“You wouldn’t kill a cat,” repeated his secretary, continuing to
move around his desk, rearranging papers and slipping the signed
cards into their matching envelopes already addressed.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” said the King, pulling
off his glasses.
“It’s what they were saying this morning, sir,” said the
secretary.
His private secretary had his own breakfast in one of the
popular eateries where gossip was as plentiful as the English
muffins and scrambled eggs. “The King wouldn’t kill a cat, so
why would he go to war with the people of England?”

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“I’m not going to war with the people of England,” said the
King.
“No, but the Kaiser is,” said his secretary, hardly pausing in his
paper sorting. “You wouldn’t kill a cat. But the Kaiser will drop
bombs from his airships that will kill rosy-cheeked English
children. They’re talking about stringing up a cat outside of New
Buckingham Palace and torturing it for your benefit.”
“My God!” said the King, shaken for the moment. He felt like
he was going to vomit. He liked cats. Cats wandered through
New Buckingham Palace and were free to reproduce at will. Even
the Queen adored them. They were frequently featured in
national news magazines.
“And a cat isn’t made in the image of God,” his secretary
continued. “So it would hardly be as immoral as the Kaiser’s
bombs on England.”
The King no longer knew whether this was his secretary
talking or the people talking. He stood up.
“If they kill a cat, or harm a cat in any way, I will personally
decapitate them.”
He looked viciously to a ceremonial sword on the wall that the
Kaiser had given him back when they had visited him at
Potsdam—something that had belonged to an ancient shogun
and came into German hands due to their Far East holdings.
“Well spoken, sir,” said the secretary, almost smiling.
The truth was, the topic of cats had not come up this
morning in the Ottawa eatery, only the immorality of a war with
England. The people were angry about having to fight the
Kaiser’s war and the private secretary was angry in particular
about his sister and her children living in a flat just outside of
London.
“And after all,” said the private secretary, pushing his point.
“Why does the Kaiser need the wealth of England? He already
has the wealth of the Romanovs.”
“What?” For a moment, the King forgot all about cats.
The private secretary nodded, his face returning to passive. He
had it on good authority. Ever increasing in knowledge, the
private secretary had cultivated an amiable relationship with his
German counterpart. It was useful for both of them.
He had learned that one of the Kaiser’s plans was to acquire
the relics of the monarchy from England if he ever had

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opportunity. Apart from what George V and Mary and their

family had brought with them when they had fled to Canada, no
one knew what had happened to the remaining wealth of the
English royal family. Priceless jewels, paintings, objets d’art had
all evaporated after the country fell to republicanism.
The King’s private secretary had ignored pointing out that any
such items would rightfully belong to King Albert and his family
and had instead listened, resulting in him learning that back in
1917, Kaiser Wilhelm II had started acquiring everything he
could that had belonged to the Russian Tsar—crowns, tiaras,
necklaces, Faberge eggs, priceless vases, paintings by Raphael,
Rembrandt, Titian, Van Dyke, even a da Vinci. He had purchased
several yachts that had been used by the Russian royal family.
Successive Kaisers had followed the practice and the palaces at
Berlin and Potsdam contained lapis lazuli furniture, solid gold
doors and crystal chandeliers from the Tsar’s former homes.
Even marquetry flooring, marble pillars and winding granite
staircases had been stripped from the Romanov estates and were
now part of the Kaiser’s domain.
“You might have observed many of the Russian pieces in his
palace when you were there.”
“He never pointed anything out to me . . .” said the King,
thinking back to their ’03 visit to Germany.
“No, he probably wouldn’t,” said the secretary, for the first
time giving his attention to the King and not to his papers. “If he
takes England, he’s hoping to plunder a vault and find the
remains of the treasures of your family. He may share a few
trinkets with you, sir, but he sees himself as a modern-day
Caesar, ruling a new world empire.”
In German, Kaiser meant Caesar, but the King never thought
that Frederick took it as seriously as that.
“These are serious allegations,” said the King, looking his
private secretary in the eye. The man held the look.
“It’s all true,” said the private secretary. Except for the cat. “We
will be fighting a war for the Kaiser, not with the Kaiser.”
“Better than against the Kaiser,” muttered the King. He
turned to his private secretary. “The Kaiser thinks I am an
appeaser. That I tolerate liberals and the like. I do no such thing!
George V was an appeaser. He didn’t rule his parliament and so it

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ruled him. He should have crushed his opponents. If he had,

we’d be in London right now!”
The King had stood and was pacing.
“I am not weak to my people! They know I rule every
centimeter of this country and God help the anarchist who takes
refuge in any corner of it. I am simply not a military man given
to plotting invasions of countries I have no desire to rule over.”
The King’s face showed strong emotion. “The man is mad in his
desire to increase his military might! He gives me no choice but
to join him. If I do not, I would be second on his list of
countries to invade!”
“The Americans would never let us fall that deep,” said his all-
knowing secretary. “They like you, sir. They would never let you
lose a war with the Kaiser. They do not like the Kaiser.”
“They like me because they think I’m ineffective,” said the
King, dryly, already almost returned to his normal calm. “Is that
it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So, did I sign a treaty with the
wrong party?” He folded his arms and leaned on his desk.
“Should I have signed a treaty with the pernicious Americans
instead? I trust them about as much as I trust the Kaiser. Show
me a way where a small dog can survive in the middle of two
lions!”
It was frighteningly insightful admission of the King’s place in
the world of rulers. The private secretary’s thoughts went to his
sister and her rosy-cheeked children, still safe for the moment.
“Perhaps the dog should snooze while the lions battle one
another.”
The King looked somber and the secretary knew that Albert
took it all into consideration. Then the King visibly switched over
to more mundane matters and enquired about what his wife had
had to cancel for today.
“She had an engagement to open the King Edward VII
Hospital, sir.”
Queen Donna hated opening public institutions. Walking
down long white corridors made her tired, she said, and she
hated hospitals.
The King knew what Queen Mary would have said. “We are
the Royal Family. We are never tired and we love hospitals.”
“She also cancelled her hour on the range.”

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His wife was training herself to use a pistol in order to repel

anarchist intruders, if necessary.
She must really be unwell, thought the King, returning to the
other side of his desk and sitting down. He had considered
taking to his bed after the departure of the Kaiser.
“My people are a happy people, Albert,” the Kaiser had said,
in one of their many long discussions where the Kaiser had
talked and the King had mainly listened. “They love their Kaiser,
their communities and their families.”
The Kaiser had given him the advice, “But you must keep
your people in the villages, Albert.” He had explained how jovial
the German villages were—the church provided faith and
stability, clubs of all kinds provided amusement. The German
people had bowling clubs, musical groups, board game clubs.
Every small town had a choir that sang praises to the Kaiser
when he made his occasional forays into the countryside.
“There are too many revolutionaries in the city. Too many
Jews. And people who come to the city looking for riches end up
finding only greedy factory owners.”
King Albert’s eyebrows had gone up at that.
The Kaiser had nodded.
“Be firm, Albert. Be firm with the factory owners. Don’t let
their greed give the Socialists a foot in the door.”
It would be nice if the Socialists didn’t seem to have so many legitimate
grievances, thought King Albert, as he absently signed a few more
cards, handing them to his private secretary before returning the
pen to its holder.
“That will be it for now,” he said to his private secretary who
nodded and left the room.
“You have two types of Jews,” the Kaiser had informed him.
“The greedy factory owner and the revolutionary agitator. You
need to concentrate your energies against both.”
The King was fairly certain the Jews were not a major concern
in Canada.
The King exited his office and was joined by two discreet
bodyguards as they headed for the front door where they were
joined by more of his personal staff who would accompany him
on the tour of the armament factory. Limousines would convey
them all to the north of the city where enterprising entrepreneurs
liked to build just beyond the city limits and thus avoid higher

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taxes, but still be able to take advantage of some of its services,

such as well-maintained roads.
It was just unfortunate that they had to pass through the
shantytown that encircled Ottawa, as it did Toronto. At least it
was summer. In winter, the people seemed to complain more.
Cold. Hunger. The King always braced himself for the usual
protests—starving children, supposedly, was always the biggest
complaint. Last year in February, 150,000 people had marched on
Parliament Hill and scared the politicians to death with their
anger. Citizens loyal to the King had hidden in their homes,
terrified, until police forces had urged the protesters to retreat.
With foresight, the people had already cobbled together a
delegation that had demanded to meet the King in order to share
their concerns with him.
Remembering when the Russians had marched on the Winter
Palace in 1905 to present their demands to Nicholas II, last Tsar
of Russia, Albert agreed to meet with them. (Nicholas II had not
and his troops had fired instead.)
Albert had done his best. He had discussed with the
delegation something that he was knowledgeable about, and in
fact, quite passionate about—gardening—suggesting that plots
be cultivated in the undeveloped areas around Shantytown. He
would provide the seeds, as well as the necessary tools.
Surprisingly, the delegation had liked the idea, providing that
the might of the King was behind it.
It was proving to be a successful venture. The King had
personally supervised the launching of the Garden Plot Project.
All of Shantytown was built on Crown Land so it was only a
matter of ensuring that adequate portions of unused land could
be turned into personal garden plots. The King had stood for
several days in the warm spring weather, distributing seed packets
and bundles of tools to all the residents. Other major cities had
been visited by the King’s representatives in order to launch the
project in similar areas.
As they passed through Shantytown today, the King was
pleased to note that the garden plots were looking well.
“They’ll have some nice pumpkins,” he observed. “Excellent
tomatoes. They’ll have a bumper crop. Perhaps we should look
into distributing some mason jars . . . ?” He turned to his
personal secretary who nodded and made a note in his ubiquitous

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daytime planner. His personal secretary was the only one of his
staff who shared his interest in garden plots for the poor.
The King hoped it would be enough. It had so alarmed the
final Emperor of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Charles I, when
he had learned of the Tsar’s abdication in 1917, that he had
immediately written to his ally, Kaiser Wilhelm II, that they
needed to bring a speedy conclusion to the Great War so as to
engage in battle with the real enemy that was raging across
Europe, international revolution. He had cited “general
starvation” as revolution’s strongest ally. Unfortunately, Charles
I’s insight had been spot-on. The Great War had led to semi-
starvation in Austria and when money had become worthless,
desperate people had paralyzed the economy further with
debilitating strikes. The red flag of revolution had started
appearing in the cities, and even more distressing, on some of his
own navy ships. Charles I had lost his throne shortly thereafter
when his multicultural kingdom was torn apart by nationalistic
factions.
The truth was, the King would have rather puttered among
the gardens of the poor than visit the new armaments factory.
For now, armaments were his contribution to the alliance with
the Kaiser. God knew, he didn’t want to promise any men in a
nation of only thirty million, particularly when most of his
ground forces were spread along the Canadian-American border.
But when he was with the Kaiser, he had the gloomy sense
that a European war was inevitable. The Kaiser had talked of a
pre-emptive strike on the English navy, while at the same time
assuring Albert that it was England who wanted war, not him. A
German preemptive strike on the English navy would hopefully
be a sufficient flexing of Teutonic muscles to deter any of their
plans to spread Socialism to the continent, he had explained.
The King could sympathize with the idea of enemies on the
border.
The Kaiser was in the middle of the two Socialist
powerhouses—England and Russia. Though small, England
maintained a formidable navy, along with a modest air force. And
Russia boasted an army of over five million men. Her tank forces
were kept in top shape and ready to roll at the slightest sign of
German aggression. And learning the lessons of the past, Russia
was more than capable of engaging an enemy that took her on in

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the dead of winter. The Kaiser had lamented that his men were
outfitted for nothing greater than a drop to zero degrees Celsius.
The average Russian infantry division remained comfortable
down to minus twenty degrees and there were special winter
divisions that could engage in battle down to temperatures of
minus forty degrees Celsius without suffering the effects of the
cold.
The Kaiser’s interest in King Albert’s Arctic Patrol division of
the navy had been disturbing.
In fact, it all made King Albert enormously nervous. Even if
the Kaiser offered his people quick victories, both the English
and the Russians were stubborn people. They would fight
courageously and cunningly. The King could easily imagine a war
that would wear down the German people, create food shortages
and turn central Europe into another Socialist republic.
The Kaiser did have his Asian empire to draw upon—India
alone could provide a million-man standing army to throw at
Socialist Russia, but Albert doubted that the Indians would last
too long once any winter—Russian or English—settled in. Not
to mention that the Kaiser had a notorious habit of sending
inferior army equipment and supplies to his brown forces.

The armaments factory had been a bore.

The lunch with the mayors of Alberta had been a little more
lively due to an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease in that
province and each mayor being quick to defend his region as not
being the source of it.
In an hour, he had to set out for the drama production at the
University of Ottawa. But at the moment, that which he had
dreaded had come upon him. His Foreign Secretary had finished
reading the full treaty that he had signed with the Kaiser and had
shown up at New Buckingham Palace demanding a meeting with
Albert. They were now in his private office.
“It’s unworkable,” said his Foreign Secretary, seated across
from him, whacking the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Entirely
unworkable.” The man’s lips were set in anger and his eyes were
flashing.
“Well, it’s done now,” said the King, grumpily.

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His Foreign Secretary couldn’t stand the Kaiser and had such
a difficult time concealing it that the King had felt it prudent to
leave him out of the negotiations.
“You have committed us to a European war, sir,” said his
Foreign Secretary.
“Not necessarily,” said the King leaning forward, across his
desk. “If you’ll read it more carefully . . .” But he knew the man
was right.
“If it were any other man but the Kaiser, I would agree with
you, sir. But the Kaiser is an ambitious man and I fear we will be
absorbed into his ambitions.”
The King exhaled. He found the whole business of
government annoying. Theoretically, he was an autocrat and his
word was law, but in reality, the people saw Parliament as the
buffer zone against tyranny and for that reason alone, he had to
bow to its wishes.
In 1905, the Tsar had had his Duma, but he had dissolved it
due to the bloody-mindedness of it all. King Albert didn’t want
to repeat the Tsar’s mistake. The Tsar had subsequently retreated
to Tsarskoe Selo, his luxurious estate just outside of St.
Petersburg, where he had enjoyed his family and his garden and
had limited his visitors to those who shared his views. Much as
he loathed most of his engagements, the King had tried to do the
opposite.
Socialist newspapers were still periodically closed down, but as
long as the mercantile and banking families of the East and the
large landholding cattle ranchers and wheat-farmers of the West
were satisfied, the country kept on.
Queen Donna ensured that there were court balls in both
Ottawa and Toronto and that the debutantes were all annually
received at New Buckingham Palace. When they had travelled to
Germany in ’03, she had scorned the Kaiser’s court in Berlin with
its military quadrilles and dowdy women.
“The only other option I can see is that we offend the Kaiser,
stand on our own two feet and open Canada up to Socialism or
Republicanism,” said the King. “He’s one of our strongest allies.
If you want to be ruled over by Godless Bolsheviks, well, by all
means, throw away the treaty.”
“Sir, I’m hardly an advocate of Darwinian thinking.” His
Foreign Secretary was, at least, smiling now.

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“Well, good, because neither am I. I’d like to ask just one of

them how nothing exploded 14 billion years ago and became
everything. Or, for them to give me their best proof that God
doesn’t exist.”
“It’s hard to prove the absence of something,” his Foreign
Secretary agreed. Now they were talking like men. “Well, I will
see what I can do,” he said, holding up the copy of the treaty and
standing. “There has to be a middle road. There always is, if one
is willing to be brave and honest.”
King Albert dismissed him with a smile and a nod.
Brave and honest. The King liked that as he watched his
departing Foreign Secretary. His wife despaired of their son,
David, but the truth was, the Crown Prince was brave and
honest. If anyone could find a middle road to things, it was
David. He had marched right into the midst of his future
subjects and had embraced what he loved most—drama. And his
faith had remained intact, perhaps even been strengthened by his
interaction with his future subjects.
On Sundays, when the Royal Family, worshipped at the New
Westminster Abbey, David’s prayers were particularly poignant
and sincere. People dabbed their eyes throughout. Only Donna
remained rigid and unmoved. A prophet is without honour in his
own home . . .
David would make a good king someday. In fact, thought
King Albert as he stood up to move on to his next engagement,
he would happily give up the throne to his son today, if he could.

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W e arrive at the Damascus Midan station just after the

morning coffee. I’m so nervous I can’t eat and I have
to go to the bathroom twice. But as Antony looks out
at the crowded station, he declares he knows exactly what to do
and says when we see the enormous distraction he is about to
create, disembark from the train.
We watch in fascination as he approaches two porters. Some
coins are exchanged and Toby turns to me to tell me to be ready.
The two German soldiers are still on the train. Many of our
fellow passengers are still milling in the corridor with their
luggage. But the porters are moving through the train, hurrying
people along so it can depart again.
From our window, we don’t see Antony anymore, but one of
the two men he talked to suddenly shrieks, “You son of a
monkey!” at the second man. “I curse your mother!” shrieks the
other man.
“I curse your father, if your mother knew who he was!”
replies the other man.

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“This is it!” says Toby, grabbing my hand. We hurry down the

corridor to the end door, the one farthest from the compartment
with the two soldiers.
The two porters are making such a scene on the platform I
doubt the two soldiers will notice us, if they’re even watching the
passengers disembark. We did buy tickets all the way through to
Baghdad.
“I curse your ancestors, your children and I curse your
religion!” I hear as we are hurrying alongside the train.
“I curse your moustache!” is the reply to that.
“I would curse your moustache, if you had one,” is the final
thing I hear as we dash out through two columns into the bright
streets of Damascus. Both men had full moustaches. That must
be a serious insult in the Arab world.
Antony is waiting for us just outside the station.
There is a nearby square, shaded by palm trees, where several
enormous silver buses are parked. There is a sign “Cross-Desert
First-Class Special Luxury Nairn Connection to Baghdad—
Damascus Section.”
“I’ll buy the tickets for all of us,” he says. “In case anyone is
looking for a couple travelling together.”
He joins a small line leading to a ticket booth while we linger
on the sidewalk.
Tramcars on tracks dominate the busy streets, although
bicycles, carts and small lorries also compete for space. On the
sidewalk, there is everything from donkeys laden with baskets to
women equally weighted down and followed by lines of children.
I’ve gotten my appetite back and I’m about to point out to Toby
the vendors with bagels on large sticks.
Then I hear gunshots.
“Wallah!” I hear some people say, without pausing.
The city does not stop. The gunshots are steady, but in the
distance.
“God give us peace,” mutters one older woman, moving along
at a slightly increased rate.
“Verily we are from God and to God we shall return,” I hear
another man, a vendor of cold drinks, say as he shakes his head.
“Has the war started already?” asks Toby when Antony joins
us.
Antony shakes his head.

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“Those are just the Druze rebels in the hills. The French have
had a hopeless time trying to subdue them. The Nairn fellow says
we might see some action in the desert because all of the tribes
have joined together to fight the French and their cursed
taxations. But don’t worry,” Antony adds. “Nairn is used to
handling bandits. We’ll get across OK. And Nairn always travels
in convoys.”
Antony looks down at his watch. “Anyway, we depart at dawn
tomorrow. It means getting up at four. I suggest we rent a room,
grab a shower and get a meal.”
Toby agrees.
“I recommend we head for the Kanawat Station,” says
Antony. “It’s close by and it’s the departure point for the Hejaz.”
“The Hejaz?” I ask.
“Mecca and Medina,” Toby explains. “The holy cities of
Islam.”
Antony nods.
“There are so many pilgrims around the Kanawat Station that
we should be able to get lost in the crowds.”
We are already in the crowds, as far as I can tell, as we move
along with shoppers and fellow tourists.
Lining the streets are cafés filled with men drinking coffee,
smoking the nargileh and playing backgammon. The occasional
lorry full of troops goes by, but they’re all French, not German.
France has had a mandate over Syria since the Great War.
While the Kanawat Station is busy handling travellers from all
over the Muslim world, Antony leads us to a nearby
neighbourhood where streets are narrow and windows are
covered in lattice. We turn into a courtyard paved with stone and
a fountain in the centre that is surrounded by graceful flower
pots and shaded by lemon and orange trees.
“As salamu alaykum,” says an older man, hurrying out of a
heavy wooden front door that is open now, but closed, would be
a formidable deterrent to intruders. I notice iron bars on the
windows of the spacious stone building.
“Wa alaykum salam,” Antony replies. “We need some rooms.”
The man waves us into the cool interior of the hotel where
there is a small desk and a guest book.
“Don’t use your real name,” says Antony in a low voice.

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Toby nods and signs us in as, “Mr. and Mrs. Ed Cornwall

from Edmonton.”
We are led to two rooms, side by side, on the second floor.
There is a bathroom in each room, tiled and luxurious and
accompanied by a feeling that with this ancient city is a collective
memory of days when Europe was filled with unwashed
barbarians while cultured Arabs bathed regularly.
After a thorough bath, including doing our laundry, we meet
in Antony’s room.
“Well, comrades,” he says. “We can do the bazaars, if you like.
The Greek Bazaar sells Damascus blades which could be useful
in an Iraqi uprising.”
“Or get us thrown into prison,” says Toby, grinning. “No, I
think laying low is our best plan.”
Antony reclines on his bed and drawls on about the souks and
khans of Damascus, telling us about the silversmiths’ bazaar,
tobacco bazaar, booksellers’ bazaar, shoe bazaar, coppersmiths’
bazaar and a whole bazaar devoted to sweets. Finally, he says we
will just get something to eat on the Street called Straight, known
for Paul’s famous conversion to Christianity.
The short walk to the Street called Straight renews my
concern. There are uniformed policemen on patrol. I doubt they
would hesitate to arrest us if their fellow Europeans wanted us.
But the more we go deeper into the walled old city, the more I’m
reassured. It’s filled with natives and tourists and seems to be
under the authority of no one, certainly not the nervous French.
We pass by merchants selling everything from brass coffee
pots to chessboards to Persian carpets before turning into a small
restaurant packed with diners and which has only one food item
on the menu, enormous falafel sandwiches.
We order sandwiches and large glasses of mango juice. There
is a radio on a shelf in the corner playing Arabic music and
around us, the patrons are animatedly talking and gesturing over
their meals. Toby and Antony are equally as animated. I’m the
quiet one, concentrating on finishing the meal and looking
forward to when we can return to our rooms and I can be alone
with Toby.

Yawning, we are in the cool morning air, watching as

passengers have their luggage loaded into the underside

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compartments of the bus. Private cars are lined up behind the

bus, creating a convoy. Oil company employees and their families,
says Antony. All German. But they don’t even look our way. They
are too busy supervising the tying of their suitcases and travelling
trunks to roof racks.
It is a mixed crowd waiting to board the Nairn bus. To me,
they look mostly Eastern, although there are some Westerners. It
is Antony who comes along side me and points out the subtle
differences—a pair of well-dressed Jewish merchants, an
authentic Bedouin sheik with two wives and innumerable
children, several Kurds in native dress, some priests in black
robes, two German backpackers, a Persian with a wife wearing
the burkah, two female residents of Baghdad, a small group of
Christian American tourists, an Egyptian wearing a fez and
looking like he might be in government.
There are also two Arab drivers for the bus.
We are told in broken French and fluent Arabic that we can
board the bus. I get a window seat while Toby and Antony can
talk to one another in aisle seats. The sun has hardly risen when
the bus is pulling away from the square, followed by its trail of
cars. The city is still sleepy and quiet and it is easy to determine
that no German soldier has seen us depart. There aren’t even any
French soldiers or police patrols in the streets at this hour.
We pick up speed outside the city. I soon realize that
Damascus, with its palm trees and greenery, is an oasis, because
within thirty minutes we are in the desert. The road is hard and
even, but everything beyond is sand with only tufts of greenery.
There is the occasional goat herder with his flock, but we are
whizzing along too fast to even be able to take in the details of
his face or his animals.
The only thing to break the monotony is at around lunch time,
when one of the drivers distributes boxed lunches—a cheese
sandwich, a salad of tomatoes and cucumbers, an orange, some
bottled water and a bar of chocolate. Shortly afterwards, the bus
rolls to a stop and the driver calls out in French, “Ladies will go
to the left and Gentlemen to the right.”
Even the members of the convoy are expected to follow this
basic rule and after everyone has finished their business, the
journey resumes.

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The highlight of the afternoon is passing a herd of gazelle,

especially when some of them run alongside the bus for several
miles.
Just before sunset, we arrive at a place called Wadi Harun. It is
several miles wide with stony ground and high walls. A rest
station called Rutba Wells has been established at Wadi Harun,
protected by rolls of barbed wire and a wall made of petrol cans
filled with sand. Mud huts are scattered around the compound.
One of the buildings has uniformed men going in and out. Some
Bedouin with camels are lounging, using their saddlebags as
cushions. Those on our bus who have done this trip before
disembark with assurance and head for the main building.
Soldiers are on patrol, but their eyes are on the menacing
desert, not the arriving passengers.
We go inside to find a flurry of activity. Waiters are bringing
lemonade to the tables that are filling up. A cook, snoozing on a
chair, is being roused to action by a shouting Arab supervisor.
The oil officials all want beer in addition to the lemonade.
After a few minutes, the two tired Arab drivers come in and sit at
a separate table and are served Turkish coffee.
After a meal of lamb kebabs and rice and salad, we return
outside to where the bus and the cars are now parked like circled
wagons.
Some people choose to sleep in the reclining seats of the bus.
Others have come prepared with camp beds and are going to
sleep outside. The male passengers, we learn, are expected to take
turns on guard duty so that the drivers can sleep. There are two-
hour stints and Toby and Antony get on the same shift, the first
one, while I return to the bus. The bus is unheated and I pull out
every piece of clothing to layer on as protection against the now
cold desert.
I don’t sleep soundly, but I’m beyond noticing when Toby and
Antony return to the bus.
It is another early morning start. At four a.m., all the
passengers are up and tea is being brewed outside over an open
fire. After some bread and fruit, we are off again, for another
long, dull drive. Eight hours on the same, straight road is
interrupted only by a stop for the ladies to go to the left and the
gentleman to the right. Lunch is another boxed affair and instead
of gazelles, today it is a convoy of German officials, the flags on

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their cars waving the proud logo of the Royal Hohenzollern Air
Force.
By 1:00, we are at the border of Iraq. Passports are hardly
glanced at by an Arab customs official who comes aboard and he
shows no special interest in Toby’s or mine. The suitcases of the
Jewish merchants, however, are examined closely. They contain
nothing more than rows and rows of Palestinian apricot jam, but
it seems to take awhile to establish that they are not contraband
jam.
“If the road to Baghdad isn’t flooded,” says Antony. “We’ll be
there by sunset.”
It’s hard to imagine anything flooding around here, but soon
the dusty desert gives way to fertility. There are mud villages
surrounded by date groves. While I see huts that look dank and
uninviting and inhabitants who live in barebones poverty and
disease, Toby—for the first time in his life—doesn’t see the
human suffering and enthuses about this being the land of
Abraham. Antony, who shares my apathy about all things biblical,
murmurs something about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and
lost glory.
But even the muddy Euphrates looks inviting after the barren
Syrian desert.
At Lake Habbaniyah we see the base of the Royal
Hohenzollern Air Force. Toby and Antony are leaning across me
to get a closer look at the airfields lined with fighter jets and at all
the seaplanes in the water.
The villages get closer and closer together until we are in
Khadhmain, home of a golden mosque, and then it is Baghdad
itself. The tourists are snapping photos through the windows.
Baghdad is on the Tigris River and as we cross the river on a
wide bridge, there is a collection of river vehicles moving lazily
along—barges, steamers, sailboats, round basketwork boats filled
with fruits and vegetables. Along the river are homes of the
wealthy where they can watch the river traffic from their
balconies.
The Nairn bus stops in front of an upscale establishment, the
Tigris Palace Hotel. The driver of the bus points out several
other similar buildings along the street and says they are also
hotels.

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The natives of the east disembark from the bus, and after
claiming their luggage, are calling for rickshaw-style
transportation to take them either to the Baghdad West, Baghdad
East or Baghdad North train station.
The visitors mill around, trying to decide which hotel will be
the best and what they want to do first now that they have
arrived.
Antony tells us that we are on Rashid Street, the main road
running through Baghdad. It runs parallel to the Tigris River. My
first observation is that camels loaded with dates are sharing the
road with cars and trolleys.
Hungry, we all agree that food should be our next step. It is
getting dark, but the city is still alive. Kebab sellers operate small
stands. We pass elderly ladies stirring big pots of what looks like
string beans. Natives purchase a chunk of bread on a piece of
string that they can then dip into the soup. Other sellers have a
soup that smells like lamb and offers the same service.
Sellers of sherbet are doing a brisk business. The sherbets of
Baghdad come in a delightful variety of flavours—rose petal,
orange blossom, apricot, peach, pomegranate and almond. We
each get one. Antony recommends that we also grab a pickled
mango in pita bread.
From Rashid Street, there are several roads down to the water.
I see women carrying goatskins or earthenware pots coming up
from the river. I hope it’s just for bathing, otherwise, I anticipate
we could have collywobbles in our stomach while we’re here if
that’s the source of drinking water.
While we eat and walk, Antony asks if we have a place to stay.
Toby nods as he swallows.
“Probably. I have my contact name and an address. You can
join us if you want, but I should warn you, it won’t be safe.” He
reaches into a pocket his knapsack and pulls out a piece of paper,
handing it to Antony.
“I didn’t come here for safe,” says Antony. He reads the
address. “Ra's al-Qaryah. It’s the Christian district. I know
because that’s the only place where you can buy wine in Baghdad.
We’ll have to cross back over the river.”
He leads us down one of the side roads that he says is Shariat
al-Nawab. It runs down to the river where we can catch a river

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taxi, which as it turns out is a rowboat with an awning and

cushions to sit on.
It only takes ten minutes to cross the river, but the smiling
Arab makes me feel welcome to Baghdad and I can tell from his
effusive thanks that Antony is a generous tipper.
On the other side, we follow Antony through narrow streets
of brick walls. People here have only one access into their
home—a heavy wooden door that requires a huge key to open,
and Antony tells us, sometimes takes two people to turn it.
“It keeps them safe,” he says. “There are spacious courtyards
behind these walls, but it would be like taking a castle to get
inside.”
“How do you know so much about Baghdad?” I ask.
“Well, Felicity,” says Antony. “I’m ashamed to say it, but my
sister married a German diplomat and they were posted out here
for several years. I came out to join them at the time. You see, my
parents are high up with the Socialist Party in England and were
horrified when my sister married a potato. They told me I should
live out here and see first-hand what the Germans are capable
of.” Antony shakes his head. “And it’s true. Anyone with brown
skin is treated like a dog by the Germans. No, that’s not true.
Dogs are treated with affection. It’s no wonder the east is ready
to rise. The Germans are cruel masters and I want to see the end
of it.”
The neighbourhood is becoming poorer as we move deeper
into it.
“A lot of the railway workers live in this area,” says Antony.
The houses are less protected now, but there is laughter
coming from behind curtained windows and I can hear
gramophones playing music.
A policeman passes us, whistling, giving me the sense that the
poverty doesn’t necessarily mean an increase in criminal activity.
Donkeys with baskets are being led through the streets.
“They pick up the rubbish at night,” says Antony. “Ah, here
we are. It’s a club.” We stop. From the outside, it appears to be a
café, of sorts.
“Men only, I’m afraid,” says Antony, glancing at me.
“They won’t mind Felicity,” says Toby. “She’s the one they
want to meet.”
Antony looks at me with respect—and curiosity.

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We open the flimsy wooden door and enter into a room of

men drinking coffee, smoking pipes, laughing and talking.
We are noticed immediately. One of the young men stands
and comes over to us.
“Welcome to the Association for Combating Illiteracy,” he
says.
“Thank you,” says Toby. “I’m Toby. This is Felicity. We’re with
the Concerned Citizens and we’ve come from Toronto. I was told
to come to this address and ask for Yusuf.”
The young man nods, turns and speaks some words in Arabic
to the rest of the group. We are waved to join several of them at
a table where we are immediately given steaming cups of Turkish
coffee.
“Yusuf has been sent for,” says the young man who welcomed
us. “He will be here soon.” We are introduced to some of the
men—Samuel, Botros, Abdullah, Daud, Ibrahim, Asher, Malaach.
They are a mix of Arab and Jewish, although they speak Arabic
to one another and broken English to us. It is a matter of
honour, they tell us, to speak no German in their club.
Yusuf arrives with energy and the room becomes charged.
He embraces us and calls out to everyone in the room that we
are friends who have journeyed so far to be here and tonight, the
union between the Socialists of East and West is a reality.
He joins us at the table and immediately the conversation is
alive with ideas. Like Toby, Yusuf is all about Socialism. We have
come halfway around the world, but there is no enquiry about
our travels or even whether we had difficulty finding the address.
Yusuf and Toby jump right into it with Toby asking about the
state of the Communist Party in Iraq.
“The Teacher's Training College and the Engineering College,
as well as some of the other public schools, are now being run by
the Communists,” says Yusuf. “Up until now, our only objective
and option has been penetration as teachers in the schools or in
the lower levels of government. Of course, in turn, the
government has tried to penetrate us.”
Toby nods.
“Some people think we should continue to just focus on
education and work politically through other parties. Others
think we should have only one distinctive Communist Party. But

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it is all academic. Though the government is filled with Arab

ministers, it is the German advisors who really run the country.”
Toby nods again.
“We don’t even have that charade of self-government in
Canada,” he says. “The truth is Yusuf, without an uprising in the
East, there will be no Socialism to speak of in Canada. And
England desperately needs the Socialists of Iraq to control the oil
supply in order to offset the ambitions of the Kaiser.”
Yusuf nods.
“The time has come. I sense it, too. And that is why I am of
the belief that we need to take more decisive action. At this
point, we are just beginning to carry out acts of sabotage against
the Germans.”
“How exciting,” I say.
Yusuf nods.
“It feels good to take action, although we are also being
careful. We cannot afford to have our men in prison. So we use
simple items—string, rocks, children's marbles, just anything on
hand that the enemy wouldn't regard as being unusual. Even our
trash can be used to, say, for example, start a fire somewhere that
would be a nuisance for the Germans.”
I think of the little donkey out in the street with his baskets of
refuse. Is he an agent of Socialism?
“I’m up for it,” says Antony.
“Me too,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” says Toby. “You’re needed for morale.”
“I think I’d be good at it.”
“That’s not the point,” says Toby and Yusuf nods. “Your time
will come, Felicity. The people will rally around you.” He turns
back to Yusuf.
“It goes beyond acts of sabotage,” Yusuf continues. “It's the
whole environment. The Germans should start finding the meat
rancid, the wine bitter, the workers surly. Men commandeered to
do skilled labour should arrive with rusty tools. Men asked to do
manual labour should quarrel frequently and act like absolute
morons when given instructions.”
Antony laughs.
“It sounds like it will frustrate them no end,” he says.
“Definitely count me in.”

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“We are in the process of creating an informal army of

saboteurs who can ruin the effectiveness of German rule here.”
“I like it,” says Antony, nodding.
“The best acts are those that cannot be attributed to any one
person,” says Yusuf. “So we tell our ladies, if you do poisoned tea
cakes, make sure you only do it once. And if you get caught,
make sure that you blame it on bad eggs or sour milk, or
something you had no control over.”
“Sounds like everyone can do their bit,” says Toby.
“Yes, they can. I have already begun giving basic training to
some of the street children on how to effectively start fires. And
for those higher up on the social scale, those who come into
contact with the Germans socially, we are giving them lessons on
how to clog the toilets.”
“But how do you clog the toilet without them knowing it was
you?” I ask.
“It's really quite ingenious,” explains Yusuf. “An English
diplomat told me how to do it. You take a sponge and soak it in a
starch solution. Then you squeeze it tightly into a ball, wrap it
with string and let it dry. You remove the string once it's dry.”
“So it's sort of a small ball?” I say.
Yusuf nods.
“A lady could put this ball in her purse and when she uses the
facilities at a German party she simply flushes it down. The
sponge gradually expands to its regular size and then the system
is plugged up. At a party it would be hard to determine who was
at fault.”
“We could do that,” I say, turning to Toby. “We could buy
some sponges in the market and if we go into government
buildings . . .”
“Do not purchase too many sponges at once,” Yusuf warns.
“You don't want to be found with a large supply of sponges. The
real key is that everything has to seem normal on the surface, but
underneath, everything is designed to drive them mad.”
“Slashing tires is always good,” says Antony. “So is draining
the fuel tank. But the best thing to do is to replace the fuel with
salt water because it causes corrosion and will do permanent
damage.”
“Excellent,” says Yusuf. “We will most certainly enjoy working
with you.” He stands. “But you must be tired after your long

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journey. Come. I have a place for you to stay.” He leads us out

into the night.
We are led back to the river, but this time we cross over on the
bridge that takes us past the Tigris Palace. But the hotel is not
our destination. We cross Rashid Street, still busy even at this
hour, and carry on to what Yusuf tells us is a Chaldean church.
“You will be safe here,” he says. “They offer hospitality to
travellers and take no interest in politics.”
We are led to a small inn on the church compound that is run
by members of the convent.
Yusuf leaves us to our two rooms and promises to come back
tomorrow to show us around Baghdad and to talk more. I think
the original idea was that Toby and I would have separate rooms,
but obviously, we give one of the rooms to Antony.
We leave Antony at his door and enter into our small room
with its stone walls, simple furniture and dim lighting.
“Do you think Antony could be one of the King’s men?” I
ask Toby, now that we are finally alone. “He has a good cover,
but you would expect him to.”
Toby shakes his head as he pulls out the contents of his
knapsack and spreads it out on the bed.
“I thought it was a possibility at first. It would be clever to
have him appear in our compartment like that, posing as a
Socialist but really keeping an eye on us. But did you see his
passport when we crossed into Iraq? It has the J on it. And when
we were doing guard duty, he told me how his grandmother is
Jewish. She was the daughter of a prominent Socialist, but she
herself went Orthodox. Antony’s mother is a strong Socialist and
she married a Gentile, but since descent is from the mother,
Antony is considered a Jew by German standards. The English
don’t affix a J to your passport. It happened when he was visiting
his sister in Germany last summer He’s serious about fighting
against the Kaiser and his kind, Felicity.”
I nod.
“OK, I’m convinced.” I stretch out on the bed, intending to
get back up to at least brush my teeth. But before I realize it, I’ve
dropped off to sleep.

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C rown Prince David stepped out of his tent, pausing to

breathe in the cool, refreshing morning air. They were
living like gypsies, taking their drama productions to the
squares of small towns in Europe and surviving on the
generosity of the locals for a field to stay in and food to eat. He
loved it.
Last night, dinner had been a strange mix of mustard greens
from the farmer whose field they were in, rhubarb pies from a
housewife who had enjoyed their production of Romeo & Juliet,
and grapes from a vineyard owner who had said they could help
themselves.
None of them were just actors. Each of them helped with the
setting up and taking down of the backdrops and when the show
was over, all of them helped with erecting tents, manning the fire,
stirring the stew, making the morning coffee, whatever was
needed to keep the whole thing going. Exhausting, but rewarding.
David’s best friend was Peter McCrae. Peter and the Crown
Prince of Canada had a friendly rivalry for the leading parts in
their plays. Last night, Peter had been Romeo while the Crown
Prince had been Tybalt. They had dueled with such skill that the

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maidens of the village had tossed roses at their feet when they
had taken their final bows. It was amusing and exhilarating, and
while some of the actors took advantage of the maidens who
fawned over the troupe, the Crown Prince and Peter had merely
laughed and waved the women away, instead, returning to their
tent with a bottle of apple cider to talk the night away. Peter was
a recent convert to Socialism and that had opened a whole new
world of discussion—about God and social justice and the
current state of the world. Peter was passionate about his new
faith. David was listening to his new ideas, delivered with such
fervor, intrigued by the change in his friend.
“Telegram, sir.” There was only one man in the company who
called David sir. He was the son of the director and was
responsible for all the paperwork that went along with outdoor
performances. He had to secure permission from local authorities
to use town squares and other public places for their
performances. He handed David a telegram.
Already holding his shaving kit with one hand, David took it
and glanced down. He expected it to be from his father, although
he had no idea how his father knew where to send it. They had
no fixed route or itinerary, just following the sun and performing
where they were welcome.
The telegram was from the Kaiser. How had the Kaiser found
him in France? David shook his head, ruefully. Trust the Kaiser’s
military intelligence to find out that the Crown Prince of Canada
was in a neighbouring country.
It was an invitation to the Kaiser’s hunting lodge at Rominten,
not exactly on the troupe’s route. The Kaiser tended to be wordy,
not feeling any need to conserve his thoughts just because it was
a telegram, and assured the Crown Prince, it would be “men
only” and that the forest around the estate was teeming with
evergreens, deer and other wildlife. Several of his older sons
would be there and would be thrilled to see their English cousin
again. The Kaiser wrote with the confidence that the Crown
Prince’s reply would be “yes.” After all, his hunting parties were
legendary. On one occasion, he and his party had brought down
over four thousand pheasant.
The director’s son was still standing there, perhaps expecting
that the Crown Prince would want to reply. The telegram hadn’t

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been in an envelope so David knew that the young man was

aware of its message.
The Crown Prince crumpled the message, handing it back to
the director’s son.
“Sir!” The young man was shocked. “It’s the Kaiser, sir!”
“I know,” said David. “And the Kaiser knows that neither I
nor my father enjoy hunting.” He walked toward the benches that
had been set up with some washbasins for those who liked to
shave in the morning.
“Sir, don’t you want to reply?” The director’s son was running
along beside him.
“Certainly,” said David. “You can do it for me. Thank him
kindly and tell him that my schedule does not permit me to join
him at this time. Perhaps some other time.”
He smiled his thanks to the director’s son.
“I could fill it out a bit more . . .” murmured the young man as
he returned to the tent that served as their office.
If the director’s son was the most ardent monarchist in the
troupe, he met the least ardent one at the washbasins.
Guy was shaving and paused to say, “Well, look who it is! His
Royal Highness. We missed you last night.”
David nodded. From what he had overheard, it had been a
near orgy in the young republican’s tent.
“Not my thing,” he said.
“What is your thing, exactly?” Guy still sounded drunk.
“God, nature, acting.” David wasn’t apologetic about any of
the things he loved.
“What? The girls of this town not good enough for you?
Don’t want to make any of them your Queen?”
David was lathering up and only half listening. It hardly ever
turned nasty and it wasn’t worth answering.
They were joined by other members of the troupe who
wanted to wash up or shave. There was a camaraderie that
transcended political views and David rarely felt that awkward
silence that descended on a room when the monarch walked in,
when people felt that they could no longer be their true selves in
the presence of royalty. The Kaiser, on the other hand, was
known to exile people to Silesia when they shared their candid
thoughts with him.

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Two days later, there was another telegram from the Kaiser.
He said he quite understood that the Crown Prince was unable to
make it to Rominten, but there was an upcoming festival in Berlin
at the Royal Opera House featuring the works of several notable
German playwrights. The Kaiser expected that that would be
more to the liking of Crown Prince David.
The tone was still that of a summons, but David didn’t
crumple the telegram this time.
The director’s son waited, almost breathless, for what the
Crown Prince would say to this telegram.
“Tell him I will be glad to attend the festival,” said David,
giving him back the telegram. “I’ll arrange my own
transportation.”
The director’s son hurried off, not only to do the bidding of
the Canadian Crown Prince, but of the great Kaiser Frederick of
Imperial Germany.
David returned to his tent and lay down. The Kaiser would
understand the implications of David making his own travel
arrangements. No royal welcome at the Berlin train station. No
guard of honour. No pomp of the Kaiser arriving in a carriage to
escort his young distant cousin back to Stadtschloss.
David would arrive at the guarded gates of Stadtschloss with a
knapsack on his back. It went against protocol.
Protocol would also have him contact his father back in
Ottawa and tell him of the Kaiser’s invitation, but David decided
not to bother. He hadn’t bothered to contact his father about the
telegram that had come two days earlier.
The truth was, David felt that as a sovereign, his father didn’t
need to worry about the Americans or the Germans. If God had
put him on the throne of Canada, God would take care of its
borders. All he needed to do was be the guardian of his people.
An enormous Bible gilded the altar at New Westminster Abbey
in Ottawa. But in New Buckingham Palace, there was only one
Bible, and it was on the bedside table beside the Crown Prince’s
bed. And in it there was a parable, spoken by the greatest
sovereign of all, Jesus. He had given his servants talents—
increments of money—to use wisely until a time of accounting.
In the story, the man who had five talents had made five more,
the man who had two talents had made two more, but the man
who had one had buried it and been reprimanded for not

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investing it in the bank where he, at least, would have gotten

interest.
By David’s way of thinking, his father had fulfilled the lowest
level of increase—he had invested his talent in the bank rather
than burying it, metaphorically speaking.
But it wasn’t David’s intent to follow his father’s example.
Canada was a nation of thirty million people and by David’s way
of thinking, that meant thirty million talents would someday be
given to him. He wanted each and every one of his subjects to
experience increase in their lives, but he didn’t see how they could
if the King of Canada received his orders from the Kaiser.
David said a prayer for inspiration. The Kaiser had been
willing to meet him halfway, but David knew that once he was in
Berlin, the Kaiser would dominate the Crown Prince with his
usual forcefulness.
Like God spoke ages ago to a young King Solomon, today
God spoke to Crown Prince David.
Take them all.
The idea was brilliant. Simple and brilliant. David sat straight
up.
“Thank you, Father,” he said out loud, and laughed. He stood
up.
He exited his tent and began moving through the camp.
“The Kaiser has invited us to a festival in Berlin! We’re all
invited to Stadtschloss in Berlin . . . !”

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T here is a knock at our door. It is morning. I’m still drowsy

as Toby answers and lets Yusuf into the room. We learn
that Yusuf has just been with Antony and now Antony
has left the Chaldean complex to return to the other side of the
river. He is keen to engage in sabotage and doesn’t need a guide
to help him find the club where the so-called Association for
Combating Illiteracy meets.
“Dear Felicity,” says Yusuf, sitting down on a chair beside the
bed. “I regret we were not able to give you a more fitting
welcome to Baghdad. Even now, I would prefer to keep the news
of your arrival to simply the comrades we trust. For it would do
no good to have the Germans know that such friends are here in
Baghdad.”
Toby sits down beside me on the bed and says, “I agree. The
Concerned Citizens sent us because we wanted you to know how
committed we are to seeing a Socialist Iraq. But we are not here
to send a message to the German overlords.”
That out of the way, the two men turn to matters in Baghdad.
“I would like you to see the city for yourselves,” says Yusuf.
“First, we will get breakfast. Then I can show you the Baghdad

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that I love. But after that, you will see the reasons why Baghdad
teeters on the edge of revolt.”
He stands and says he will wait in the hall, allowing us to wash
up and change clothes.
From the Chaldean church, it is a short walk back to Rashid
Street.
A lorry convey of Arab soldiers is passing through the
crowded street, forcing all other vehicles and animals to move to
the side.
“Where are the Germans?” says Toby. “All I see are Arab
soldiers.”
Yusuf nods.
“We have a few German soldiers, too. They are mostly the
officers. But it is Arabs in the ranks. I believe it is a punishment
for a German to be posted to Iraq.”
We all smile.
From Rashid Street, Yusuf leads us through a maze of narrow
streets for about fifteen minutes until we come to a covered
marketplace.
“This is the Shorjah,” says Yusuf. “The sort of thing you
show people who want to see the real Baghdad, not the fancy
dress parties thrown by the Germans.”
There are fruit sellers, carpet sellers, silverware sellers, along
with all sorts of other items—cups and saucers, tea-pots,
embroidered scarves, second-hand coats and sweaters, hand-
made woven bedspreads, candles, clay pots, sheepskin coats,
inlaid mother of pearl trays and copper coffee sets. Spices, beans,
and rice can be purchased from enormous baskets. Everything
edible is covered in flies.
Older Arabs in long robes of striped cotton sit on stools by
trays of bootlaces or combs or bananas or towels or razors and
blades, their fingers slipping over amber prayer beads. Younger
Arabs in European suits move along at a quick pace.
A man with a cart of watermelons passes by. A woman with
small children, two on foot, one in her arms, stops him and he
pulls out a knife to cut open one so she can examine the colour.
Satisfied that it is red, not pink, she purchases it and walks away,
now loaded down even more.
Beyond the central market of the Shorjah are other roads. We
pass a stationary shop, a seller of sweets, a shop filled with

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woodcarvings. We pass through another smaller market area

devoted entirely to clothes.
Men carry large handkerchiefs, bundled up to carry purchases.
Barbers work on the sidewalk, offering haircuts and shaves.
“It is nice to come back at night,” says Yusuf. “You can buy
ice cream and watch a magic-lantern show with pictures of places
around the world.” He points. Right now, the spot he points to
has a man with a monkey who plays a miniature tambourine.
“And this is Souq al Khubz,” he says, waving his hand. “The
market of bread.” We turn. Shops with ovens in the back and
piles of bread out front line the street. We purchase some of the
fresh, flat bread and eat as we turn again and walk down the Souq
al Safafiir where the sellers of brass and copper supply the people
of Baghdad with their cookware.
Yusuf turns into a small establishment that sells the strong,
sweet coffee of Arabia and we join the other patrons who are
sipping their drinks, playing backgammon or dominoes and
listening to the radio that is playing in a corner. At first, the music
is distinctly Eastern and then it turns to the sound of a German
marching band. There is booing until the proprietor turns the dial
to a station that is speaking in Arabic.
The room settles as people listen to the soothing cadences of
Arabic and the steady clink of dominoes and backgammon
pieces.
“It is the Qur’an,” Yusuf says to us. “It is the only Arabic-
language broadcast they will allow. For our news, we are forced to
rely on their German Broadcasting System.”
We finish our coffee and return through a neighborhood of
narrow streets of brick walls back to Rashid Street where
commerce continues to be the chief activity.
“Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” one young boy calls out, running
alongside some of the wealthier-looking shoppers. He is waved
away with a sharp “Imshee!”
Porters carry heavy loads on their back, calling out in Arabic
for people to watch out as they pass.
Water sellers are everywhere. I presume the water we had in
our coffee came from the Tigris, but I’d rather not drink it
directly. There are also sellers of juice. Kebabs are being cooked
over open fires.
Toby asks about the fuel they’re using.

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“Sheep dung,” replies Yusuf, glancing down. “It doesn’t create

a lot of smoke. But the best is to cook over hawthorn plants. It
smells nice.”
Funny, in the land of oil.
A young woman leads a cow. Cows are big, I realize, as I move
to allow her to pass.
“A cow?” says Toby, who is looking around, curious about
everything.
“Yes,” says Yusuf, glancing back at the young woman. “She
goes from door-to-door and sells fresh milk.”
“She milks the cow right at the doorway?”
Yusuf nods.
He points out Bank Street in case we need to do anything
financial. It runs off of Rashid Street. Rashid Street itself seems
to go on for miles.
Toby says he would like to exchange some money and we turn
into the closest bank, the Deutsche Orient Bank. Inside is like
being in Europe. It is euphoric to feel the air-conditioning and
less euphoric to hear the German being spoken between the
blond, blue-eyed tellers.
For a fee, Toby exchanges Canadian dollars for the currency
of Baghdad—rupees and annas.
“The Germans brought the currency into alignment with that
of India’s,” Yusuf says when I ask him if that’s an ancient type
of money. “Iraq is actually a subsidiary of their Indian
administration.” He shakes his head at the insult of it all.
Unlike the Deutsche Orient Building, the other buildings on
Bank Street have shabby doors with peeling paint. Back on
Rashid Street, we step into a telegram office so that Yusuf can
send a message off to a Bedouin friend in a rural village. The
interior of the building is dark and musty, but it’s still cooler
inside with the electric fans overhead.
“I don’t see too many Germans,” says Toby looking around,
when we come out again.
“A German woman rarely does her own marketing,” says
Yusuf. “Each German household has an Arab to make the
purchases.”
A double-decker tram passes in the crowded, uneven street,
competing with urban residents in cars and large lorries full of
Arabs. The noise is overwhelming. Motor cars continually honk.

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A policeman directing traffic whistles. People without horns

simply shout at one another. Vendors call out as we pass. Even
the way people converse with one another seems confrontational,
with a lot of gesturing and animation. I’ve seen several men clear
their throats with force and then spit out on the sidewalk.
Though, in all fairness, the dust is the chief cause of this need to
expectorate.
Yusuf says the tram takes Muslims worshippers out to the
golden mosque at Khadmain. We keep going until we come to
one of the bridges that cross the river.
Everything is dusty brown—the Tigris, the banks of the
Tigris, the buildings—with only the palm trees to add a touch of
gracefulness to the scene. Women are washing their clothing in
the brown muddy water. Toby points at the only non-dusty
structure. It is a gleaming white. Yusuf says it is the German
Embassy.
We do not return to the neighbourhood where we first met
Yusuf but enter a totally different world.
It is hot now, and the only good thing on this side is the
breeze from the river. But as we move further in from the edge
of the Tigris, even that is lost in the labyrinth of mud homes that
we are now passing through. Yusuf tells us that this
neighbourhood is a mix of Jews and Muslims.
We have left behind indoor plumbing, electricity, outdoor
lighting, paved streets. A man with a load of kindling on his back
is going from door-to-door.
“They live pretty much on salted yoghurt and fruit,” says
Yusuf. “It is the only way to survive the heat. Sometimes they
catch fish from the river.”
“Is that why they need the twigs?” Toby asks. “For the fish?”
“The small fire they make will be for their only luxury, tea
with sugar,” Yusuf explains. “It is their only comfort amidst the
poverty. A man works all day, 14 hours, and it is what he comes
home to.”
Although there are people in the streets, eyes are kept low and
bodies are emaciated. It doesn’t feel like life. Here, in this
neighborhood, there is a tangible sense of approaching death.
A little boy comes down the narrow road, a tray slung around
his neck with a small assortment of combs and hair elastics on it.
I tell Yusuf I would like to buy something from him. Toby pulls a

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handful of coins out of his pocket and shows them to Yusuf.

Yusuf nods and selects a couple of them, while telling me to
select whatever I like. I take an elastic for my hair that will be
useful in this heat. The boy nods and says “shukran” several
times. I think Yusuf was generous and I am glad.
With all the turns we’ve taken, we’re now near the river again.
A small alleyway leads to a khan, or courtyard.
A pair of older men are playing a game of chess under the
shade of an almond tree. Weeds are poking up between the
courtyard stones.
The men greet Yusuf with a wave but the Arab servant at the
door looks at me with disapproval until Yusuf speaks a few
words in Arabic and we are allowed inside. Although the interior
of the house is spacious, there are damp patches on the wall and
the plaster is flaking off. We are shown into a large room
furnished with cushions lining the walls.
“This is the salamlik, the room reserved for the male visitors.
Normally, Felicity would not be permitted here and would have
to visit with the ladies of the home in the haramlik,” Yusuf
explains as we take a seat.
In the corner of the room, another servant has begun the
process of preparing the coffee. He is grinding beans with a
mortar and pestle. Then he takes the grinds and pours them into
a large pot to which he adds boiled water that has been sitting on
a kerosene stove.
The room is gradually filling with men. To avoid making eye
contact with them, I continue to watch the coffee-maker. After a
time, he strains the coffee from the larger pot into a smaller pot.
More coffee grounds are added and the process is repeated twice
until the coffee is in the smallest serving pot, like the ones I saw
in the marketplace today.
A slight man enters the room and we all stand. Yusuf
embraces him and then introduces us.
“Uncle, these are our friends from the west. Felicity, of whom
who have heard a great deal, and her protector, Toby.”
The older man nods and welcomes us in Arabic. Toby is
prompted by Yusuf to give the suitable Arabic replies and it is
evident that there is a certain ceremony to this series of
salutations.

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We sit down to the coffee, now sweetened and being served in

tiny cups. The method used by the servant to pour the coffee is
extraordinary. We sit and hold our cup while he stands and pours
a long, thin stream into it, knowing exactly at what point he must
stop in order to keep it from overflowing.
The older man turns to us, now speaking in English.
“It is important,” he says, “to greet you like an Arab. But now
I talk to you as a comrade.”
Toby nods.
“All of Iraq suffers under German tyranny,” the older man
continues. “I know my history. The Jews of Kaiser Wilhelm’s
Germany were called unpatriotic, red apes. But the contempt of
the German people extends to all of the Semitic peoples. The
colour of our skin determines our place in the Aryan nation and
we are as dirt underneath their feet.”
Sitting beside Toby, Yusuf murmurs his agreement.
“Yet, we are not entirely unlike. There was a time,” the man
continues, “when Germany was a rural nation. Two-thirds of her
children lived in villages and only one-third in the cities. And
Socialism has always started in the cities. When the Industrial
Revolution came to Germany and the people made their way to
the cities, Socialism flourished and soon it was two-thirds of the
people who lived in the cities and only one-third back in the
villages. And Germany teetered on the edge of Socialism.”
The older man has a slow way of speaking, but it is
mesmerizing.
“But Wilhelm II led his nation into war and once again, the
Germans reverted to old ways. No longer hearing the universal
call of all workingmen, but returning to her Aryan notions of
superiority. All of the East laments as a result.”
As he has been speaking, there have been even more young
men drifting into the room and taking spots on the cushions to
listen to him. He is clearly a leader and his home is open to them.
Yusuf nods.
“It is true, Uncle,” he says. “But it is now time to talk strategy.
With your approval and those of the comrades . . .” He
acknowledges the young men scattered around the room. “We
must concentrate on Basra. It is our most oil-rich region and it
has access to the sea . . .”

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“I don’t think we should ignore the north,” someone

interrupts. “The pipelines from the north also run right to a sea.”
“True,” says the older man, nodding. “Basra may be our ocean
port, but the pipelines of the north run to the Mediterranean and
that is just as important.”
“We hardly use our own oil,” someone else says. “What good
is it to us? We should just destroy the pipelines in the north and
blow up the wells in Basra and let no one have it!”
A couple of men nod and one says, “We will just be handing it
over to the English.”
“That is not true!” says Yusuf. “The oil will belong to the Iraqi
Socialists! And we cannot just blow up the oil wells. We will need
the revenue!”
Toby leans forward.
“I am here as a student,” he says. “Not a tutor. Felicity is here
to show you that we hold you as brothers in our cause. We
ourselves owe our Socialism to Edward Cornwall, who led his
people to equality. We hope the same for you.”
Yusuf nods.
“The comrades of the West fear the Germans, as do we.”
The older man speaks again.
“Of course, it will all come about as a result of the clerics in
the holy cities of Najaf and Karbala.”
There is general nodding.
Yusuf explains.
“Najaf and Karbala are the holy cities of the Shiite Muslims.
My uncle and I are Christian and we have among us today, Sunni
Muslims and Jews. But Iraq has more Shiite Muslims than any
other religion, so if they are with us, we cannot fail. Ultimately,
the clerics must decide that infidel rule is against true religion.”
“Was religion a force in the days of Edward Cornwall?” one
of the young men asks Toby.
“Not in the same way,” replies Toby. “There were many
Christians on either side of the great divide between rich and
poor, and to be honest, I think there were good Christians to be
found in both groups. But we had come to a point in history
where it wasn’t enough to just be rich and offer some comfort to
the poor in the form of soup and improved housing.”
“That is when it is time to assassinate the king!” someone else
calls out.

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“There were many assassination attempts against King

Edward.”
Toby has the attention of the room.
“The king’s loyal supporters attributed the assassination
attempts on their sovereign as being anarchist in nature, and thus,
something to be dismissed as senseless violence. Even the king
dismissed any man who pointed a pistol at him as being mad. But
the facts told a different story.” Toby leans forward. “An assassin
who attempted to kill the king did so not because he was mad,
but because he was an Irish Fenian and the king’s supporters
occupied his country. Anther assassin attempted to take the life
of the king because his sympathies were with the Boers. But this
wasn’t madness. These weren’t the forces of anarchy. They were
just the longings of people to live in a just world.”
“Well spoken,” murmurs Yusuf ’s uncle. He turns to Yusuf
and says, “You must take them to meet Sheik Habibi.”
Yusuf groans.
“But Uncle, they have come to Baghdad to join us in
revolution, not to meet the people who will abstain from it.”
Yusuf ’s uncle shakes his head.
“He speaks as a prophet. If he is against our ideas, perhaps
our friends from the West should hear why.”
Toby nods.
“That sounds like wise advice,” he says. “I would very much
like to meet Sheik Habibi.”

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T he men surrounding the Kaiser always carried little

notebooks to jot down his many ideas—whatever was of
current importance to him, ranging from his political foes
all the way down to the buttons on the new naval uniforms.
The men present today were the court favourites, the
ministers who he was not at odds with. Right now, he was at war
with his Chancellor over the Kaiser’s recent announcement to the
press that the Reichstag would be passing a law that would
protect any striking workers who wanted to return to work. His
Chancellor had the imbecilic idea that they needed the support of
the left-wing sympathizers in order to pass this year’s naval
budget, but Frederick’s frequent strategy for handling political
opposition was to announce to the press his intentions before
actually consulting his ministers.
But today, his agile mind quickly lost interest in labour issues
and went instead, to wine. While in Canada, he had noted that he
had been offered hock or claret to drink.
“Why do we not supply the world with red wine, too?” he
demanded now. “Why do we leave that to the French?” Naturally,
in Canada he had accepted the hock and been pleased by the

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quality of the fine German white wine that had been served to
him. “The Canadians didn’t have a single claret that wasn’t from
France.”
No one mentioned the obvious point that by definition, a
claret would always be a red wine from the Bordeaux region of
France.
Someone murmured something about Canada having French
people in Quebec, which the Kaiser ignored. No one else spoke
up. Ministerial purges were all too frequent.
“Well, that’s it for today, gentlemen,” said Frederick, walking
towards the door of his office, forcing the others to move along
with him. The newest member of the clique, a young Minister of
Agrarian Affairs, was startled by the abrupt dismissal. The others
were used to it. Although these personal meetings with the
Kaiser were meant to touch upon matters of current debate in
the Reichstag, the Kaiser only brought up the things that
interested him.
The small group watched the Kaiser’s back as he disappeared
through a doorway into the interior of Stadtschloss, leaving his
ministers standing in the anteroom of his office.
While his ministers speculated about whether he was going
hunting or riding, Frederick hurried to his next meeting, one that
was not in his personal secretary’s day planner, one with the
Admiral of the German Imperial Navy. There were battleship
plans to look at and Kaiser Frederick was like a young boy on
Christmas Eve. Each new battleship was a shiny present. With his
Admiral, he could talk openly. Together, they no longer even
pretended that the Kaiserliche Marine existed to defend the
coast. They could speak freely about its offensive purposes. They
were in the process of expanding their submarine fleet and
Frederick could already imagine his submarines stealthily
navigating the Thames and emerging in the heart of London
much to the terror of its Socialist citizens. It was an enormously
pleasing thought, although, his Admiral had a more prosaic plan
for the submarine fleet—to disrupt British trade in the Channel
and the Atlantic.
In his pocket, he had a redesigned war ensign for his navy
featuring the Imperial eagle, a symbol that went back to the days
of Charlemagne, who took it from an even earlier Empire, the
Romans. It was no great feat for Frederick’s imagination to

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believe that very soon, he would rule a landmass the same size as
that of the mighty Romans. The other symbol on his new war
ensign was the iron cross and that went back to the days of
Teutonic Knights in Jerusalem.
Frederick entered the office of his Admiral, hardly bothering
to knock, already rubbing his hands in anticipation of the new
battleship plans they would view together.
His Admiral, a small slim man with grey hair and matching
Van Dyke beard, looked up and gave him a slight smile. Despite
their outward differences and his Admiral’s complete lack of
sense of humour, Frederick felt that they were really two parts of
the same soul. He could speak his mind with this man and
receive no irritating protestations. His ministers always looked
pained when he spoke his mind. But, of course, politicians were
not men of action.
The Admiral handed him the blueprints and he unrolled them
on the enormous table in the centre of the office. He studied
them for some time, his Admiral at his side.
“Yes, yes,” he finally said, approvingly. “This will give the
English something to think about. Of course, it would be
marvelous if the first time they met the SMS Wilhelm that it
would be on the high seas. But I don’t suppose their spies can be
stopped from reporting back to London.”
The Admiral murmured his agreement. No amount of
Imperial Naval Intelligence could keep the activities of the Kiel
dockyards a secret.
The Kaiser left the plans on the table, moving restlessly
around the room, his eyes eventually turning to a memo on the
Admiral’s desk about creating another torpedo division.
“How many divisions do we have now?” he asked the
Admiral.
“About thirty,” said the Admiral. Frederick nodded his
approval. The Admiral came forward with some papers for the
Kaiser to sign, which Frederick did without even glancing at
them first. The trust between the two men was too complete.
The Admiral poured them each a coffee from a silver pot on a
side bureau, which they drank while talking, before turning to a
bottle of schnapps in a cupboard below.
They continued to talk for a pleasant hour until the Kaiser
refused a last drink and stood, saying, “The Kaiserin will be

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expecting me for lunch. And you know how she doesn’t like me
to arrive in a tipsy state.”
The two men laughed.
The Kaiserin was a model of womanhood and disapproved of
any drinking before the midday meal.
With six lively sons, the luncheon table was never quiet, but it
could be dull. Frederick did not encourage his wife to take an
interest in political affairs and her charities, though worthwhile,
did not interest him.
Today, the matter on his wife’s mind was the one she’d been
going on about for weeks now. Their youngest two, Affie and
Fritz, had a private tutor but Frederick had pointed out
repeatedly to his wife that the Crown Prince had been attending
the military academy just outside of Potsdam when he had been a
year younger than Fritz and that they really must go. But the
Kaiserin just flatly refused to let go of her two last children.
“You can have an officer train them here,” she said today, after
the Kaiser had asked a blessing over the sauerbraten, roasted
potatoes and dumplings.
“No, I cannot,” he said with exasperation, reaching for a jar of
spicy mustard and wishing that his wife allowed beer at the family
table. “A man cannot learn to be an officer if he doesn’t have
men underneath him.”
“They are not men. They are boys.”
As if to demonstrate the truth of this, at that moment, Crown
Prince Wilhelm tossed a hard bread roll across the table at Oskar,
something that the Kaiserin would normally have corrected him
on, but today she was fighting a hopeless war and her nerves
were too shattered to concern herself with bread battles.
“Boys must become men.”
“You have enough men in your army. You have enough
officers. Why can you not just allow some of your boys to be
what they wish to be?”
“But the boys want to be officers, don’t you, boys?” said the
Kaiser, turning to his two youngest.
The two nodded and nobody could say whether it was because
they genuinely did or because they didn’t think they really had a
choice.
“So what should they be?” the Kaiser asked, turning back to
his wife. “Painters? Tram drivers? Chicken farmers? Really, Effie,

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there is only one profession for a prince and that is to be an army

officer.”
More bread rolls flew across the table, which both parents
ignored. The Kaiserin’s food was going cold and the Kaiser was
speeding up his eating in order to move on to a productive
afternoon with his private secretary replying to and sending
telegrams to whoever he impulsively decided needed to hear
from their Kaiser.
He risked a glimpse at his wife. Effie, normally so placid and
agreeable to anything he offered her, was red-cheeked and thin-
lipped. He could almost see the dark cloud over her head,
complete with bolts of lightening.
What could he do? Throw away the future of his two
youngest sons so that she could have company in the nursery?
Perhaps he should provide her with another child . . .
“A holiday,” he said out loud. “You need a holiday.”
“I most certainly do not need a holiday,” said the Kaiserin.
She knew where this was heading. He would say she was tired. He
would say she was overwrought. Anything but the issue, the issue
of losing her two youngest to the military.
But the Kaiser’s mind was already made up. His wife needed a
holiday. He was already planning out the yacht he would purchase
for her. It would be outfitted with all the comforts a woman
needed. Of course, to be worthy of a Kaiserin, it would have to
be only slightly smaller than his. Perhaps something the navy
didn’t need anymore? Or perhaps his wife would like to design
something herself . . .
The Kaiser was pleased with this new idea. It gave him a new
hope for the impossible situation that his wife had gotten them
into, an argument that she seemed determined to win when she
knew she could only lose.
Of course, a cruise along the coast of France would be ideal,
but he simply couldn’t say when that wouldn’t be a sensible
option. History would provide him with the right moment and
when it did, he didn’t want his wife’s yacht caught in a naval
battle. Of course, the Baltic Sea was always safe. The Russians
were smart enough keep their navy in the Gulf of Finland . . . It
was all coming together.

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The Kaiser stood and pushed back his chair, leaving his wife
to her untouched coffee. Perhaps a cruise through the northern
seas could be an annual event for his wife.
Effie, through years of quiet observation, knew where her
husband’s thoughts were going. Whether she liked it or not, her
husband would plan a holiday for her. And today, it enraged her.
She also stood, pushing her chair back into the table with such
force that all the china shook. The boys were instantly quiet,
exchanging concerned looks. It was all very fine and well for
them to hurl bread rolls across the table at one another, but when
their mother was angry, the world was disconcertingly turned
upside down.
She followed her husband—who thought he had made a clean
break—for one final showdown.

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N o one can prepare you for the heat of Iraq. We are out
in the open sun today, drifting down the Tigris in a
guffah—an enormous round wicker basket coated with
bitumen. We are seated on the bottom while the owner of the
guffah moves us gently along with a long pole, like a gondolier.
No self-respecting German overlord travels this way. They have
safinahs—hundred-ton boats with shaded decks and iced drinks
to quaff.
The Tigris is the main route to the south because roads are
primitive. When it rains, they turn to mud and I am told that it is
actually quite cold here during the rainy season.
We are continually being passed by larger ships transporting
goods—long narrow fifty-ton balams, as well as baghalahs which
are deep-sea dhows that can sail along the Gulf coast. Bellums
with white awnings carry passengers, manned by muscular men
pushing poles. Small black canoes maneuver around all the bigger
boats.
But the guffah is the most popular form of travel for people
and goods. Many are filled with melons and are heading in the
opposite direction, back to Baghdad.

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It takes a full seven or eight days to get to Basra, but we will

be going ashore a day’s journey north of the port city. The sheik
we are going to visit commands a great tribe that takes pride in
answering to no man, particular the Germans. Sheik Habibi is
said to fear only the word of Allah. Yusuf tells us that the sheik
has already led one revolt against the Germans a few years ago.
He and his men cut the telephone lines, destroyed bridges on the
Euphrates between Fasaliyah and Abu-Sukhayr and blocked the
road between Diwaniyah and Najaf.
“They did this for Islam?” Toby asks.
Yusuf laughs.
“Sheikh Habibi did it because in the earliest days of the
Germans in Iraq, the Germans created the Kulaib Canal which
resulted in his grandfather’s crops being covered in water. Beware
of the Arab,” says Yusuf, still smiling. “He has a long memory.
Since the southern uprising, the Germans have made some
reforms to our government. At least, that is what they call them.
In power are the Arabs that the Germans can trust and each
Minister has his own German advisor. They promise that they
will not interfere with the formation of political parties. It fools
no one. But there are some among the Socialists who say that we
should try to work within this new parliament, that in their fear
of revolt, the Germans may finally be willing to work with us.”
“But you don’t agree?”
Yusuf shakes his head.
“The Germans have no respect for us. They do not fear us.
They are the ones who want to be feared. That is all. And
government reforms will not stop a jihad,” he adds. “That is why
I say the time is now. That is why I initially contacted you. Things
were stirred up in both the towns and the tribes. Since we
contacted our brothers and sisters in the west, the Diwaniyyah
tribe has also risen up. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sheik had
something to do with that, too.”
“Your uncle clearly respects Sheik Habibi,” says Toby.
Yusuf nods. “He was educated at Oxford, yet he holds to the
old ways. He will freely speak his mind. He may not fight with us,
but he will not fight against us.”
The day is not only hellishly hot, but everything is a brown
haze and today we are choking on a yellow dust in the air.

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There is nothing to do but sit, listen to Toby and Yusuf and

watch the shoreline. I have realized that in this culture, a man isn’t
generally interested in what a woman has to say. There were no
women among the Socialists here and when I asked him about
his family, our guffah owner told us that he has “two children and
two girls,” a clear indicator that girls don’t really count.
So I continue to watch the scenery and the other boats out on
the water.
Despite the haze, there is the scent of oranges in the air.
Barley fields and fruit trees grow close to the river. Beyond the
fruit trees, I can see tamarisks.
People are harvesting almonds from trees in fields. Our
journey is at such a lazy pace that I can see the whole process as
we pass the villages. The nuts are taken out of their green outer
shells and spread on the flat roofs to dry.
I envy the gardens we pass, with their leafy vineyards and the
shade produced by apricot, apple, almond, olive, fig, pomegranate
and mulberry trees. (I wouldn’t know any of the names of the
trees except that the owner of the guffah also considers himself a
bit of a guide and points these things out.)
Now Yusuf is telling Toby about the German “kultur” in Iraq.
Apparently, the Germans have fancy dress parties where they all
come in costumes and their front porches—sometimes even their
entire homes—are turned into things like jungles or ships. They
have their At Homes where they receive visitors every Monday,
or every second and fourth Wednesday. Tea is served on brass
trays. Yusuf knows all this because his sister works in the home
of the High Commissioner. The High Commissioner is referred
to as “His Excellency.” His wife is a dragon, but most German
women in Iraq are. They are intensely cliquish, guarding their
husbands from the temptations of Arab women and ostracizing
any of their own that venture out into the souks to meet a real
Iraqi.
“Are Arabs ever invited to these German get-togethers?”
Toby asks.
Yusuf nods.
“The ones in government often are. They are the shields the
Germans use, to make us think we have some measure of say in
our country’s administration. Only a few are in top positions.

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Most are low-level clerks. However, I know of very few Arabs

who are willing to socialize with our German oppressors.”
“What do the Germans do if you refuse to attend a soiree?”
Yusuf laughs.
“No Arab will ever tell you he doesn’t want to come. He’ll tell
you he has a headache or a broken motor wheel.”
We all smile.
For our meals, we dock at a village and purchase a lunch or
dinner that has been cooked outside in an enormous pot over an
open fire, usually rice with some chicken or other stewed meat.
We sit under arbors with woven roofs of branches. Then we buy
a handful of dates and some strained pomegranate juice to take
with us.
I know the East is getting to me when I start to lose all sense
of time or even a sense of purpose.

When we do finally arrive at the sheik’s camp by the Tigris, it

is midday and since we are special guests, there is a special meal
prepared that evening. Toby says to Yusuf that it reminds him of
Abraham entertaining the angels. Yusuf nods knowledgably and
says that here, all life is Biblical. I have no idea what they’re
talking about, only that we have another dinner cooked in the
open air—rice and roasted calf, along with fresh bread and the
ubiquitous strained pomegranate juice to drink.
The Bedouins don’t quite know what to do with me.
Thankfully, I’m allowed to move around freely the next day.
Life among the Bedouin is simple, I quickly realize. Their flour
comes from the seed of a desert plant which is then baked in the
ashes of the fire. Animals are only killed for celebrations. Rice,
dates, buttermilk and cheese fill out the rest of their diet. Around
the fire, the men talk about past glories—raids and feuds. And at
night, the desert turns cold and the wind bitter. If you don’t have
a tent and a bed partner, you can sleep tucked away in your
kneeling camel for warmth. (Thankfully I had both Toby and a
tent to stay warm.)
These days, I have a rather reckless sense of being a traveller
rather than a tourist. But for Toby, who never forgets that he’s a
Socialist, there is only one reason for being here, and that is to
meet and talk with the sheik. I am allowed to accompany him,
but only if I stay quiet.

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But Sheik Habibi is polite enough, embracing both Toby and

me and thanking us for journeying so far to his camp to share
coffee and ideas. And despite the Eastern penchant for long
preliminaries, he and Toby are soon engaged in intense
conversation.
“It was pointed out to me by Socialists in England that the
monarchy in Germany has used Christianity to justify their rule.
Hence, all opposed to the monarchy, Socialists in particular, are
atheists. They see the king as being the strong man who has
survived, nothing more.”
Toby nods.
“But how does matter make itself ?” says the sheik, with a
gesture of his hand. “This is the problem. This is the question I
cannot answer. This is the question I put to everyone who tells
me he is an atheist. How does matter make itself ? For if matter
does not make itself, then I should not be here. On the other
hand, if Allah created man, well then, wallah!” The sheik laughs.
“I am here!”
Toby and Yusuf both smile. This is exactly the sort of
philosophy Toby loves.
“So when it comes to kings and revolutions to overthrow
kings . . .” The sheik shrugs. “I will it leave it in the hands of
Allah who has made and who will judge all men.”
Toby is still nodding, more vigorously.
“You agree?” The sheik is surprised. “I though all Socialists
were materialists, atheists.”
“Toby is a Christian Socialist,” I say, speaking for the first time
in this world of men.
“A Christian Socialist,” the sheik repeats, turning back to Toby.
“Yes,” says Toby. “As was Edward Cornwall. He believed, as
do I, that Christian charity is at the heart of Socialism and that
the purest example of it was the first-century church’s willingness
to sell what they had to share with anyone in need.”
“I, too, believe that religion teaches us this,” says the sheik,
nodding. “With or without Socialism, this is how we must
live . . .”
And once again, I am left behind in the conversation as Toby
and the sheik are revealed to be kindred spirits—eyes shining as
they share their mutual philosophies of religion.

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But after awhile, they have to come down from the clouds and
back to the world of men.
“You have come here to convince us that we will succeed if
we join with you and that you will succeed if you join with us,”
says Sheik Habibi.
Toby nods.
And then the sheik asks Toby a question no one has ever
thought to ask.
“But tell me,” says the sheik. “Why will you fail?”
The background murmurings stop and everyone leans in to
listen to the answer.
Toby hesitates and then answers honestly.
“Because we are divided.” And then it comes out like a flood.
“There are enough of us, but we are all in different groups. The
Canadian branch of the Concerned Citizens. The Order of the
Canadian Knights. Union for the Welfare of the People. Union
of Salvation. I could go on. And that’s just the Socialists. The
Anarchists could have hundreds of organizations for all I know.
People meeting in basements all over the country, plotting to
overthrow the king and all for different reasons. No. That’s not
true.” Toby corrects himself. “We all want the same thing. We all
want a power shift, a chance for the ones on the bottom to try to
make it to the top, or at least a little higher up. What we can’t
agree on is, who will lead us.”
“And who will lead?” asks the sheik, quietly. “Is it to be you?”
Toby shakes his head.
“No, it’s not. And the army would have to be on our side . . .”
A rifle shot is fired just outside the tent. And then there are
shouts. “Almaan! Almaan!” And then more rifle shots.
Almaan is Arabic for German I quickly realize as men jump to
their feet, excitement on their faces.
The sheik is calm, but moves fast. We are rapidly invited to
follow him, ducking out of the back of the tent where there are
some horses and servants already untying them from their tether.
At first, I think the sheik is going to ride out with us, but he is
handing the reins of a horse to Toby.
“I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble . . .” says
Toby.
“This isn’t about you,” says the sheik, as another servant
hands him a rifle. His eyes are sparkling. “This is sport. We

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Bedouin do not believe in paying taxes.” And then, in a moment

of intensity, he says to Toby, “Believe in Allah. Follow his
direction. He will give you your leader.” And then he turns and is
gone, around the other side of the tent, to join the increasing
pandemonium now in the camp.

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T he Kaiser was used to showing up at the castles of his

aristocratic subjects with an entourage of eighty or so
attendants for a weekend of recreation. Whatever
enormous trouble in cost and convenience this brought to his
realm’s dukes and counts, they never told him. So when the King
of Canada’s son arrived at the Berlin Palace of Stadtschloss with
thirty fellow actors, the Kaiser was an amiable host.
His servants were ordered to escort them to rooms in one of
the palace’s many wings and they were told that breakfast was at
six. Of course, the Kaiser privately took his repast with the
Kaiserin, but the Royal Princes and their attendants would be
there to amuse the visitors. David hid a smile and thought of his
fellow actors getting up at four in the morning to wash up and
dress and then walk the mile to the dining hall. He doubted any
of them would miss it despite the inconvenience; the opportunity
to eat in such an opulent environment with princes other than
himself was just too great.
For his own part, David could acknowledge that Stadtschloss
was far superior to New Buckingham Palace. But as a boy he had
enjoyed reading Biblical descriptions of God’s throne—a

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sapphire throne flaming with fire on a sea of crystal with

thousands upon thousands attending him and ten thousands
standing before him. After that, any earthly king’s symbols of
power had seemed like trinkets by comparison.
“Come with me, my son,” said the Kaiser, jovially, putting his
arm around the Crown Prince’s and noting the thin shoulders. He
was used to the solid sturdiness of his own boys. But regardless,
the Kaiser loved fellow royals. It was one of the few times he
could treat someone as an equal.
“Will you be accompanying us to the theatre tonight, sir?”
asked David, allowing a footman to take his knapsack.
“Much as I’d love to, matters of state to attend to,” said the
Kaiser. “And call me Uncle.” His arm still around David’s
shoulders, he led him down an enormous, red-carpeted hallway
lined with portraits of Hohenzollern ancestors. Many of them
were of Wilhelm II in various military costumes. “But I won’t
miss tomorrow’s performance. I wrote it, you know.”
David looked surprised.
The Kaiser nodded, pleased.
“You didn’t know I could do such a thing? But I can. A
Wagnerian production. Good solid German morals. I’m afraid
my kingdom is full of people who don’t appreciate that it is our
morals that have carried us this far.”
“Fear God. Love your people,” said David.
“That’s it!” said the Kaiser, giving his shoulder a hard squeeze,
delighted with the young man’s insight. “That’s it exactly! Art
should elevate. Too many artists depress our spirits with their
dreary depictions of sordid life. We don’t need that. We need
grandeur and purpose . . .”
David nodded. Unlike his parents, he really didn’t mind the
Kaiser, knowing that a lot of what he said was born of the
simple creed that he had a divine right to his throne. It was
something every ruler believed, more or less.
“But the Kaiserin will be there tonight with her group of
ladies,” said the Kaiser, already bored of the topic. “Come!” The
Kaiser let go of David’s shoulder to push open some solid oak
doors.
Inside was a room with a glossy parquet floor and military
men milling around, hands on swords.

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“My dearest cousin from Canada is here,” said the Kaiser, to

the general room. All had turned as soon as he entered.
The Kaiser was heading for a dais that had a plush-velvet
throne-like chair at the summit. He waved at a footman and
almost instantaneously, another lesser chair appeared and was
positioned one step below the Kaiser’s. All of the other men
remained standing and David observed that despite their
uniforms, some of them were quite elderly.
“What news?” the Kaiser said to a man standing at the foot of
the dais.
“It’s not getting any better, sir,” said the man. “It’s spreading,
in fact. Aachen, the Saar basin, Saxony and Silesia . . .”
The Kaiser turned to David.
“The coal miners in the Ruhr district are rioting. It’s the
damned Socialists. They put ideas in people’s minds.”
“You must send in the army, sir,” said the man. There was
general nodding. “At the rate it’s going, it could spread to Berlin
if you don’t.”
“Yes, of course,” said the Kaiser, waving a hand. He turned to
David. “You see what must be done to maintain order?” The
Kaiser was grateful for this chance to show the future King of
Canada what a strong leader looked like. He certainly wasn’t
going to get it from his father.”
“Uncle,” said David, boldly. “I do see. But if you permit me
an opinion, I would say that some of your most loyal subjects
might be Socialists.”
There was a singular gasp of shock from the military men.
For a moment, the Kaiser’s eyes blazed, but then changed to
amused. No one had ever suggested such a thing in his presence.
“Explain,” he said.
David nodded. “Socialists aren’t always republicans. Socialists
don’t always oppose German values, they simple want the
benefits of the German nation to be distributed in a way that is
more fair.”
“More fair?” demanded the Kaiser, now serious.
“The Bible says that if we have food and clothing we will be
content,” David continued. “Sovereigns have loyal subjects when
they have full stomachs and warm clothing.”
The Kaiser was quiet for a moment and the whole room
collectively held its breath.

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“The lad is right,” the Kaiser said, after a pause. “Out of the
mouths of babes.” He beamed at the room as the collective
breath was released.
“So if they were rioting in your country, what would you do?
I’ll leave this one up to you, David,” said the Kaiser surveying his
followers with a smile that said we’re-having-enormous-fun. He
called out to the throng of officers. “Let’s see what the young
pup suggests!”
They all laughed. David got the feeling that they always
laughed at what the Kaiser said, but today, most of it sounded
genuine.
“Your subjects love you,” said David carefully. He had had
only had a moment to pray for direction. “Rich and poor, they
love you. But you are the defender of the poor. The rich can look
out for themselves.”
The room went silent. Everyone was watching Frederick for
his reaction. Again, he looked serious. Then he laughed.
“I’d by lynched if I took your advice, my boy!” He thumped
David on the back and the room broke out in general agreement.
David was not entirely disappointed. For one moment, he had
seen the recognition of truth in the Kaiser’s eyes.

David’s love of drama had been born of his love for the Bible.
Unlike many mothers in royal Canada, his had not read the Bible
to him at night. Instead, she had flipped through fashion
magazines to keep her company while he fell asleep. Though
more often, she was out at “an opening.” Queens always seemed
to attend openings.
So he read his Bible until he was sleepy—discovering blood
and gore and sex. Kings and harlots. Judges and farmers.
Prisoners and prophets. A blind man receiving his sight. A dead
man coming to life. A Saviour crying out against the religious
leaders of his day. Earthly armies. Heavenly armies. The stories
were so panoramic, the stage so vast that the Bible played out in
David’s mind like drama.
This evening’s production seemed banal compared to the
Bible—a sordid little story about peasants and the paternity of
one particular village child. His fellow actors seemed to be
enjoying it, as did most of the audience. David and his troupe
had seats on the main floor of the Royal Opera House, but right

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now, his eyes were on the Royal box where the Kaiserin and her
entourage were looking visibly upset about the production. When
two of the actors disappeared into an onstage haystack, the
Kaiserin stood up and the rest of the women in her box
followed. It didn’t go unnoticed by some in the audience and
even a few people on the stage had a passing look of concern on
their faces.
David grinned and turned back to the production. This show
would only run once.
When they returned to the palace, they were informed that the
Kaiserin had come home early from the Opera House to spend
time with her sons who hated to miss an evening with her. They
had her apologies for the vulgar production that they had been
subjected to and her assurances that the Kaiser’s play the next
night would be devoid of such immorality.
David sensed the amusement around him. The troupe would
have been openly guffawing if they had been in a pub and not in
the presence of the Kaiserin’s footman. David was sure they
would retreat to their rooms and have an outright laugh at Effie’s
expense over private flasks of gin or vodka.
“Would I be permitted to say a quick goodnight to the
Kaiserin and the Imperial princes?” David asked the footman,
while his party dispersed.
The footman hesitated.
“They do not normally allow anyone into their private
quarters,” he said. “However, I will see if they are willing to make
an exception for you.”
David was led through chambers of the sumptuously
decorated palace. That was the advantage of not losing your
throne. You inherited hundreds of years worth of family
acquisitions. New Buckingham Palace had a distinctly Canadiana
quality about it, with its paucity of accumulated European
treasures.
David was made to wait outside a massive pair of golden
doors that led to the Kaiser and his family’s private apartment,
two guards keeping a careful eye on him while the doors closed
behind the footman. David didn’t know anything about German
regiments, but the uniforms were smart and the bayonets looked
sharp.

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The footman returned five minutes later to say that the

Kaiserin would love to see her cousin from Canada and to
personally apologize for the depraved production.
Beyond the golden doors, David was surprised by the homey
quality of the Imperial family’s living quarters. Clearly it was not
for show and was similar to an English country home in the days
of King George V, the final king to rule England. David recalled
that Kaiser Wilhelm II had ruled at the same time and wondered
how much of the English style had been a result of him being
Queen Victoria’s eldest grandchild.
The footman opened another door to a delicately decorated,
lilac-scented sitting room where Effie stood.
“Dear David,” she said, coming forward and taking both of
his hands. “I do apologize for that dreadful show. I hope you and
your troupe were not offended.”
David was solemn.
“Very few of us are lovers of the Bible, your Majesty,” he said.
“I say it with great regret.”
“Call me Aunt, dear,” said Effie, sitting down in a chintz
armchair and signaling him to take a seat on a matching loveseat.
“What you say is true. The Kaiser pours his soul into his people
and yet I’m afraid many of them do not share his love of God.
We are the great nation of Luther and should be a light to the
world.”
“I’m afraid Canada does not offer anything in the way of the
great tradition of Luther,” said the David. “But we have the
wilderness to the north of us and that in itself is a testimony to
God’s grandeur.”
“Amen,” said Effie, simply.
“I came to personally thank you for taking a stand tonight,”
said David.
“As God’s servants, we must be ever faithful.”
“So true,” said David.
Effie was thinking how agreeable the young prince was now
that she had had a chance to get to know him. His mother’s
disagreeable qualities had overshadowed her son’s piety.
They made pleasant small talk until David said that he would
leave the Kaiserin to her sons and they both stood, wishing each
other a good night before David returned to his room on the
other side of the palace.

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The next night, there was a marked change in the Royal Opera
House. The Kaiser’s play was on a vast, epic scale and one could
feel the energy in the air.
All of the notables of Berlin were in the audience and while
the Canadian troupe of actors had their seats on the main floor
among them, David had been invited to sit in the Imperial Box
with the Kaiser, Kaiserin and their six sons. The younger boys
were fidgety but the Kaiserin passed them her opera glasses to
keep them amused. David was sure one of them was going to
drop the glasses on one of the heads of the dignitaries below.
The setting was medieval and the play was about a battle. The
stage was filled with actors and swords and smoke and even live
horses.
“It’s an allegory,” the Kaiser said to David, happy to have
someone to explain things to. Effie and his sons had long since
tired of hearing about his production. “Between good and evil.
We must be ever vigilant. In this case, the historical setting is the
Prussian conquest of Europe in the late 1800’s.”
David nodded although he didn’t necessarily agree that Prussia
warring against France was part of the epic battle between good
and evil.
David couldn’t help but notice that among the audience
members, it was those in the cheap seats who enjoyed the lively
show. The ministers of state that the Kaiser had pointed out to
David all looked as fidgety as the Kaiser’s younger sons. A few of
them even failed to return to their seats after the intermission,
something that did not go unnoticed by the Kaiser.
“Today our battle is against Socialism,” said the Kaiser, who
didn’t bother to lower his voice. The noise on the stage didn’t
really require him to.
David said, “You yourself have a Christian Socialist Party in
the Reichstag.”
“A misnomer,” grumbled the Kaiser. “It’s not possible to be a
Christian and a Socialist.”
“On the contrary,” said David, whose quick mind had
absorbed all the salient points of Peter’s arguments over the last
few weeks. “I think it’s quite possible for a Christian to be a
Socialist, particularly a Christian king.”

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The Kaiser’s eyebrows went up and David was glad they were
with the family and not with the military entourage.
“Explain,” said the Kaiser.
“Our very Saviour was a Socialist with a passionate interest in
the poor.”
“No,” said the Kaiser, shaking his head. “He said we would
always have the poor among us. That is different.”
“He said the rich have had their comfort in this life and that it
would be the poor beggar Lazarus’s turn in the life to come.”
David’s eyes roamed around the opulent theatre.
The Kaiser shrugged but was quiet. David pushed the point.
“It is for the King to be a Socialist, not his subjects. It is for
the King to ensure that all his subjects have their needs met and
that there is an equality of resources. Each King is given talents
of gold by his King, our Father in heaven. So we alone are in a
position to bring about justice and equality.”
The Kaiser snorted but didn’t say anything to contradict him.
A King should not fear Socialism,” said David, as he pushed
to make his final point. “A King should be the greatest Socialist
of all.”
Now the Kaiser laughed, a full hearty belly laugh.
“If I talked that way, my own Admiral of the Fleet would have
me locked up!”
But David knew that he had made his point.

The rest of his troupe, including Peter, went back to France

while David stayed on at Stadtschloss. From what he gathered,
the food of Stadtschloss had generated more discussion than the
drama productions of the festival. Despite the enormous wealth
of the Hohenzollern’s, the Kaiser’s chef used the same
ingredients over and over—pork, potatoes and cabbage. David
had pointed out that that wasn’t entirely true. One night they had
had turnip as a side dish. Nonetheless, the drama troupe was
unanimous in wanting to return to the land of crepes, croissants
and café au laits.
But Jesus had said that his meat was to do the will of him who
sent him, so in that spirit, David remained.
The Kaiser’s sons were too militarily minded to be of interest
to him and the Kaiser was busy with matters of state, but the
Kaiserin welcomed him into her lilac-scented sitting room for

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long conversations about the Bible and the writings of the

Moravian Brethren. David had the impression that for all his
piety, the Kaiser didn’t enjoy conversations with his wife about
religious matters.
David didn’t just stay indoors. There were woods outside of
Berlin he could walk through. And the Kaiser’s stables were open
to him. Several times, he took an afternoon ride through the
Tiergarten.
One night, after a lively dinner with the family where the
Kaiser’s sons threw brussel sprouts at one another, Frederick
invited David to his library for a personal chat.
While the Kaiser lit a cigar, David browsed the shelves. The
Kaiser had an abundance of German books in library binding,
but what he really seemed to read, judging by the worn out
spines, were classic English adventure novels—Jules Verne,
Rudyard Kipling, Frederick Marryat. A whole shelf was devoted
to P.G. Wodehouse. Bret Harte and Mark Twain represented
American literature.
History was another interest of the Kaiser’s, particularly
books about monarchies, the military and especially, the
Hohenzollerns.
David was just beginning to browse a whole case of
promising theological works when the Kaiser spoke.
“I want to know what your intentions are,” said the Kaiser, as
he exhaled smoke. He spoke abruptly, man-to-man.
David was startled as he turned from the shelves to face the
Kaiser.
“Will you lead your country into some form of degenerative
Socialism after your father has passed on?”
“No, sir,” said David, for the moment forgetting that he was
permitted to call the Kaiser uncle. “I will not choose anything
that will degenerate my people. But with regards to a form of
Socialism, I do believe I will.”
“And how am I to respond to this?”
“It is my belief that you do not have to respond at all,” said
David, taking one of the leather chairs across from the Kaiser.
“Canada is a sovereign nation and free to follow her own
destiny.”

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“Fine words. Not rooted in reality. I have the power to crush

you.” The Kaiser didn’t sound malevolent. It was the simple
truth.
“I believe you do, sir,” said David. “But God help me if I
don’t at least give it a try. The Psalmist wrote that God does not
delight in the strength of the horse, nor the legs of the warrior,
but favours those who fear him and put their hope in his
steadfast love.”
There was silence before the Kaiser laughed.
“If you side yourself with God, how can I oppose you?” The
Kaiser crossed his legs. “But your father and I have made a treaty.
How would you handle that?”
“I would revoke the treaty,” said David honestly. “It’s not in
the best interest of Canada. We are not a strong nation and our
navy is primarily a defensive one, not meant for offensive
maneuvers.”
“Then why did your father sign this treaty with me?”
“Because he’s afraid of you.”
“He seems to be afraid of many things.”
David nodded.
“I don’t think I dishonor him to agree with you. He has much
reason to be afraid. We have a republican nation to the south of
us who talks about their Manifest Destiny to push north and take
all of North America . . .”
“I wouldn’t let them,” interrupted the Kaiser. “The king of
Mexico is my cousin. They wouldn’t be allowed to step a foot
across his border or yours.”
“But then my father really isn’t the king if he needs another
stronger king to defend his sovereignty.”
The Kaiser smiled.
“They named you well. If you keep talking that way, you’ll be
David of old facing new Goliaths. The Americans. Maybe even
me.”
“And we all know how it turned out for David,” said the
Crown Prince smiling.
The Kaiser laughed.
At this point, it was still a friendly conversation. The Kaiser
was in the position of strength and the Crown Prince, in his
opinion, was an inexperienced idealist.

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“Let me steer you on the straight path, son,” said the Kaiser,
leaning forward. “Strength comes from God and right now, I
have that strength. Your father knows that, and no matter what
you say, that treaty we signed is in the best interest of Canada.”
“I believe that the straight path is Jesus Christ himself, sir,”
said David.
“I won’t argue that one,” said the Kaiser. “Theology is clearly
a gift with you and the Kaiserin is as proud of you as she is of
her own sons. We consider you family, as indeed you are. But in
terms of politics and world affairs, your father is wiser than you.”
David nodded as a tribute to his father.
“As indeed all fathers are,” David said. He did not feel moved
to share his belief that the best antidote to radicalism was for the
King to claim its central tenets for himself.
The Kaiser settled back in his chair.
“All this fuss over a few more dreadnoughts in my navy,” he
said, shaking his head, sounding bemused.
David didn’t say anything. The whole civilized world knew
that the German naval build-up was about far more than a few
extra ships. It represented a threat to the current balance of
power.
“I must take you out on my yacht,” said the Kaiser, still
smiling. “It’s the finest in its class.”
David nodded. It would be awhile before Canada forgot the
Kaiser’s yacht, the size of a battleship and equipped with the
furnishings of a palace. All the Toronto newsmen had rushed
down to the docks to obtain tours of its luxury, which the Kaiser
had granted despite the semi-secret nature of his visit.
“I would like that very much, Uncle.”

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T he violent uprising of coal miners and other industrial

labourers in the Ruhr region has caused a stir in Iraq.
In the cities of Germany, there is unrest, marches in
the street. The European newspapers are reporting that Kaiser
Frederick has sent an uncoded telegram from his Potsdam palace
to his army in Berlin to shoot at the workers who have dared to
strike in the capital.
Meanwhile, the unrest continues to spead through Aachen, the
Saar basin, Saxony and Silesia with violence between workers and
the army sent out to suppress it.
“He’ll crush them,” Toby predicts, an opinion supported by
the German chancellor who announces to the press that the
workers who continue to create discord will be punished. He
assures the newsmen of Europe that while the Socialists call for
shorter work hours, the majority of workers in Germany don’t
want the Socialists telling them they can only work so many
hours.
In the meantime, we are having our own Socialist uprising.
With Toby here to inspire him, Yusuf is on fire. The
Communist Party of Iraq is being turned into an effective

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instrument and the coffeehouse Communists are being left

behind. Like Lenin, Yusuf has realized that sometimes a smaller
band of dedicated brothers is better than a whole crowd of
people sitting around offering their left-wing opinions.
With Toby’s gentle guidance, Yusuf is weeding out those who
have a tolerance for compromise.
The premise is simple. When Socialism comes to Iraq, the
Party must be ready to assume power. Therefore, at the top are
the ones who are truly committed. Below them are the
sympathizers. They are the ones who may run when the tanks
come out, but are useful for filling out the marches and creating
the sense of this being a huge movement.
And now that the leadership positions are held by the
strongest of the Communists, the Communist Party is becoming
more effective in winning new converts. Street preaching on the
college campuses has resulted in many of the students embracing
it. It is a new kind of faith and they are following it with
devotion.
The government has always been seen as an oppressor of the
people. In Iraq, the Germans have chosen to work with the Sunni
Muslims in a land where the Shia are the majority. So Yusuf
hopes that the Shia will turn this into a holy war, an extension of
their existing faith. When the tanks do come out and the people
flee, the Shia, he believes, will be willing to shelter the
Communists in their homes until the soldiers pass.
The Communist Party now has its own printing press. Toby
insisted on it. Previously, all newspapers and tracts were printed
on a government stenciling machine by Ash-Shararah, the Spark,
Yusuf ’s second-in-command. He is supervisor of the Typewriter
Division of the Directorate General of Land Registry.
Tracts, filled with quotes from the Quran and calling for a
constitution, are now distributed at every outreach and every
march.
We even organize the first Communist Party conference in
Iraq. It is, of course, a secret meeting and is held in a home in the
ash-Shaikh Umar district, a working class neighbourhood in
Baghdad. Most of the men who attend are urban Arabs.
It is an important meeting, creating a four-member Central
Committee, four leadership posts for different districts, as well as
dividing up the different responsibilities. Most members come

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from Baghdad, but there are a small number of representatives

from Najaf and Muntafiq and Basrah and Amarah. I’m rapidly
learning the geography of Iraq.
Yusuf presides, reading a report on Communism
internationally and updating everyone on matters locally. He tells
us of the recent successes of the Soviet army and what is going
on in Moscow, the extent of German influence in Iraq, foreign
exploitation in general, lack of freedom and how the government
is not working for the people.
“Allah forgive me!” I hear one of the delegates mutter. He
has just yawned. I hide a smile. I’m at the front with Toby and
Yusuf, facing the delegates. Yusuf speaks in a slow, steady voice
and the room is hot, but I have learned that the Muslims
discourage yawning because the Prophet Muhammad
discouraged yawning. A sneeze is better, apparently.
After Yusuf, a Comrade Hazim speaks. He starts his speech
with “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate”
before speaking about the youth and how important they are.
Comrade Sarim also begins his speech with “In the name of
God, the Merciful, the Compassionate” and then speaks about
education and how important it is. It is a Muslim thing, I soon
realize. Then matters turn to immediate business, a constitution.
The constitution of the Communist Party will in effect be the
future constitution of Iraq.
I, too, have to stifle a yawn at this point because I’ve heard all
this before in Canada. But the delegates are leaning forward,
eager to have their say about the contents of this vital document.
“It must be a call for real independence, of course.
Democratic government. The basic necessities of life at an
affordable price.”
Toby is nodding as he takes notes. He never seems tired of
this.
“Deliverance from monopolistic hold of foreign companies,”
someone else says.
Something about a free market. Reasonable rent for the
peasants instead of outrageous extortion. Better Labor laws. Tax
reductions for the poor. Education. Equal rights . . .
“Better treatment for soldiers,” says one young comrade in a
uniform. “No more floggings.”

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“Open relations with all democratic peoples. Diplomatic

relations with the Soviet Union.”
It never sounds too unreasonable, until one tries to present it
to the ruling authorities and they make it seem like high treason.
Any Communist Party meeting—whether in Canada or Iraq—
generally ends the same way, with everyone agreeing that we want
a Free Homeland and a Happy People before everyone drinks
coffee and then goes home.

The next day, there begins a boycott of the Baghdad Electric

Light and Power Company (owned by the Germans) that lasts for
a week. The sale of generators skyrockets and the boycott is
successful. It is organized by the trade union leaders, with the
support of the Communist Party.
The government's response is to ban trade unions.
The day after the boycott ends, 5,000 workers at the Iraq
Petroleum Company in Kirkuk go on strike. They want higher
wages and since the trade unions are now banned, their only
option is to strike. Eight days of Communist Party outdoor
meetings accompany the strikes where the workers gather to
listen to speeches and poems, as well as messages from
international Socialists. Telegrams of support have been coming
in from England and Russia in support of the strikers.
Toby and Yusuf and I are on a rough podium made of mud
bricks when I see a cloud of dust coming along a road that
threads to the German-controlled Iraq Petroleum Company in
isolated Kirkuk. We have travelled days to be in this northern city
and to take part in this strike. And as I watch with ominous
dread, the approaching police jeeps, I know it is all going to come
to an abrupt and violent end.
The police are firing almost as soon as the vehicles have come
to a stop. People are fleeing. Toby and Yusuf and I have jumped
down to ground level and we join the running hordes. The only
other option is to stand still and get shot.
There are no friendly Shiite homes to hide in this time;
everything in this area is controlled by the petroleum company.
Our best hope is to make it to the town itself and disappear
somewhere in the souk, which seems to be everyone’s general
plan. It only works because the police are reluctant to fire into a

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busy commercial area. The strikers and their supporters are soon
mingling in with shoppers, fooling no one, but protected by the
fact that the police cannot gun down an entire souk.
We find out the next day that, despite that, at least ten people
died and another 27 were injured.
And everyone is angry in Kirkuk. It is clear that the
government values its oil more than its people. The word in the
souk is that Kirkuk doesn’t think the government is worth
supporting.
Alas, we cannot stay and take advantage of this highly-
favourable environment. Yusuf and Toby will be wanted by the
police and so we say goodbye to our hosts, the local Communist
leaders, and leave further ferment to them.

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B y now, all of Europe knew that the Crown Prince of

Canada was sailing the Mediterranean with his distant
cousin, the Kaiser. For one thing, just their simple
departure from Stadtschloss had been in an open horse-drawn
carriage down Unter den Linden, through the Brandenburg Gate,
surrounded by the elite Gardes-du-Corps regiment. From there,
they had boarded the Imperial train to Kiel.
The Kaiser had pointed out towns of interest all along the
way—many of them mining towns, one particular one produced
salt, all of them picturesque in their valleys or by their rivers, with
wooden framed homes, cobble-stoned market squares and
churches older than Canada. Only Canada’s mountains and
forests could outdo Germany’s that came and went long enough
to acknowledge their beauty but did not last long enough to
inspire awe in David like the time he had taken the royal train out
west to British Columbia on a whistle-stop tour with his father.
To David’s eye, all of Kiel had turned out to see the Kaiser
and the Canadian Crown Prince board the royal yacht.
Once at sea, the Kaiser had taken David on a complete tour
of the ship—Promenade deck; Bridge deck; Upper, Middle and

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Lower decks; engine room; galley, even the crews’ quarters. There
had been gunwale gunnery drills to view, followed by a
sumptuous lunch in the Kaiser’s dining room that didn’t include a
single item with ham or potatoes, but rather, a conglomerate of
edible imports that came to Kiel from the world’s cargo ships.
After a few days of sailing, what had started as a simple desire
to show-off his yacht to his young cousin had turned into an
entire tour of all the ancient ruins in his empire. The Kaiser was
an avid amateur archaeologist and found David to be an
intelligent audience, particularly when the ruins were of a Biblical
or Roman site. Though at home, the Kaiser was famous for
announcing at the opening of a secondary school, “We ought to
educate young Germans, not young Greeks or Romans . . .” he
still greatly appreciated the classical quality of the Canadian
Crown Prince’s education.
Of course, David’s parents now knew that he wasn’t touring
France anymore and the King’s telegram to his son aboard the
royal yacht revealed a concern that his son might be a semi-
hostage, meant to keep the King of Canada in line with the
recently-signed treaty.
David had replied with assurances that he and the Kaiser
shared a genuine interest in ancient relics and that, in fact, he was
having an enormously enjoyable time with “Uncle Frederick.” He
had no way of knowing if his father was convinced.
He and Frederick had already toured the ruins of Rome and
Pompeii, where the Kaiser was received as a returning Caesar, for
that was what Kaiser meant in German. Italy was only a
sovereign nation in name. The Kaiser considered it part of his
personal sphere.
Now they were steaming to the island of Corfu where the
Kaiser owned a villa that had been in his family since the days of
Wilhelm II. He generally visited once a year and while there,
would supervise a nearby expedition digging for Roman relics.
When the Kaiser was out of earshot, David heard one of his
travelling party sarcastically remark how the locals always refilled
the site with “relics” for the Kaiser to find each year.
David gathered that the Kaiser deliberately left Effie behind
on these trips, preferring the masculine company aboard the ship
and the freedom that came with not having to be on his best
behavior. David soon found that the Kaiser was a lover of

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practical jokes and one evening, when he returned to his

stateroom, he was welcomed with a bucket of water held in place
by string that unloaded on his head as he entered. The Kaiser’s
roar of laughter left no question as to who was behind it.
David took it in stride.
Mostly, though, the Kaiser enjoyed leaning on the railing of
his yacht, while they steamed across the Ionian Sea, discussing
the birth of Christianity and the teachings of Christ and the
spread of the message by Paul throughout the Roman world.
“The apostle Paul’s eyes probably saw the same things we’re
looking at,” said the Kaiser, animated by the idea. “How many
times did he pass this way?”
One thing was certain, the eyes of the apostle Paul didn’t see
all the little motor boats that zipped out to—most likely—wave
at the Kaiser and get a better look at his yacht. But the Kaiser’s
Imperial security detail treated each one like a threat and fired
shots to deter them from coming any closer.
“I am the number one target of the anarchists,” said the
Kaiser, proudly, to David.
Every night, the Kaiser expected as much of the crew as
could and all of his attendants to be present for an evening
reading of the Bible in the dining room. In light of their travels,
the Kaiser was reading selected passages from the Acts of the
Apostles or from the letters of Paul. Though the Kaiser’s
travelling party tolerated his enthusiasms when talking directly to
him, David observed that they were contemptuous of his faith
behind him.
The world of German politics still intruded and the Kaiser
was often in the telegram room of his ship, sending messages
back to Berlin. Often, David was at his side. The Kaiser still
believed that David was appallingly under-trained by his father
for his future kingly duties and that it was, therefore, his
responsible to show the young lad how a true autocrat ruled his
people.
But the visits to the telegram room stopped as soon as they
arrived at Corfu.
As the yacht approached the harbour, David could see that the
whole quayside was alive with people. The Kaiser disembarked
first and with David at his side, greeted many of the people

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personally before climbing into a carriage provided for him,

complete with two horses and a Corfu driver.
“I would have preferred a car,” said the Kaiser to David, as
they rode away, the Kaiser smiling and waving at the crowds.
“But these are a rustic, simple people and I treasure their little
gestures.”
David had found that the peasants of both Canada and
France had displayed more cunning than most city-dwellers and
he assumed the same was probably true of the people of this
island. In fact, the way the driver had his head slightly tilted,
David was certain the man could understand German and wasn’t
as simple as he looked.
The Kaiser’s villa, Achilleion, was sumptuous, having
previously belonged to an Austro-Hungarian empress. The villa
was built in a classical Greek style and the gardens were scattered
with life-size replicas of Greek gods and goddesses, the showcase
piece being one of Achilles—for whom the villa was named—
stretched out and appealing upwards to the heavens, or more
likely, to Mount Olympus. All this had been part of the original
construction and David doubted the Kaiser would have ordered
the construction of this outdoor pantheon of pagan mythology.
But David soon found out that despite the outward luxury, it
was Spartan living. The Kaiser, who normally had a six o’clock
breakfast with Effie back in Berlin, was now up at four a.m.,
presiding over a meal of boiled eggs, bread and coffee. Then
carts from the village arrived and all his attendants were expected
to be at the dig-site, actually digging, as it turned out.
The only break they were all permitted was a morning
cigarette along with Turkish coffee. Then they were expected to
work until mid-afternoon where they all then returned to the villa
for a lunch of salads and grains, prepared by the middle-aged
cook who was the only female in the house. Even maids weren’t
moving about in the villa—everyone was expected to make their
own beds and other chores were divided.
“It’s like being in the bleedin’ military,” moaned one
particularly plump German, smoking on the terrace. Today, after
lunch, the entourage could talk freely since the Kaiser had been
invited to a nearby village to unveil a statue of his father.
“Kaiser Freddie’s always fancied himself a military man,” said
another.

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David was above them, on his balcony, hidden by several

enormous potted plants. He doubted they would be speaking so
freely if they knew he could hear them. He had come out to
survey the magnificent view of the entire south of the island.
“Dull as dishwater, it all is,” said the first. “Just a lot of dirt
and old Greek pots.”
David didn’t agree. The dig-site was an authentic
archaeological site that was unearthing and restoring a temple of
Artemis. The Kaiser’s keen knowledge of history kept the whole
thing interesting for David since the Kaiser freely shared all his
knowledge about the site with him. Kaiser Frederick’s interest in
archaeology went back to his days as a student when he had
attended lectures about Greek architecture at the University of
Bonn.
For his own part, David could see that the Kaiser was guilty
of only one thing, assuming that his passion was everyone else’s.
On the dig-site, he didn’t just supervise, he dug along with
everyone else. And when it came to chores, the Kaiser had put
himself in charge of dusting, not minding that he had a pink
feather duster and doing it cheerfully, even standing on a chair to
get the tops of painting frames.
The Kaiser returned to Achilleion after an hour and everyone
was back on their best behavior. He presided over a dinner of
lettuce, field herbs and some broiled chicken before convening
everyone to the large drawing room for a small sermon on not
giving in to fleshly lusts, no doubt inspired by the peculiar
combination of opulence and austerity that he fostered at his
Corfu villa. Then everyone was sent to bed.
The Kaiser himself went into the library and David followed.
The shelves were well stocked for such an out-of-the-way
residence. Or perhaps libraries mattered even more in such
outposts of Empire.
Frederick, already standing with a book, turned to him with a
smile. David moved closer and saw that he was holding a
biography about his great grandfather, Kaiser Wilhelm II. The
Kaiser had a page open and he whacked it when David came in.
“He had it all planned out,” he said, with no preamble. “His
military was prepared for war on two fronts. The idea was to
move in quickly and take France before she had time to mobilize
and then turn on Russia while she was still mobilizing.”

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David nodded. It was the Great War he was talking about. At

that time, Russia was still under the Tsar and the military was not
the fine-tuned machine it was today.
“Paris for lunch, he used to say,” said Frederick, almost
wistfully. “And St. Petersburg for dinner.”
David smiled at the wit, but not the sentiment. Frederick left
the room with his book. David was left to muse. Was an invasion
of France really still part of a German military plan? Would
France, a republic that had only a marginal Socialist element, be
occupied simply because she was on the way to England? It was
disturbing.
David continued to browse and found a book about the
history of Corfu, which he selected for his bedtime reading.
He was going up the grand staircase with his book when the
whole ground shook underneath him and he fell several steps
down to the marble floor in the entranceway.
Stunned, lying on the ground, David wasn’t sure whether the
explosion had come from somewhere in the villa or somewhere
outside on the grounds.
There was silence and then chaos and confusion. People were
running down the enormous staircase, all around David, as he sat
up and reached for the book that had been thrown from his
hand. Reaching for the book was an automatic reflex. In the
general rush, he would be crushed if he didn’t stand up. Slowly,
David got to his feet. Though his head hurt, he explored it with
his hand but felt no blood.
“Where’s the Kaiser?” he murmured, but no one was listening.
It was a stampede to get out the front door.
He went up the stairs, now emptied of people, and saw a
scene of devastation. The door that had once led to the Kaiser’s
suite was hanging on a single hinge and beyond that, there was
just open air. No wonder the whole house had shook. And if the
Kaiser had been in his bed or at his wash basin at the time that it
had gone off . . .
David turned and ran back downstairs.
It was still light out, due to the early bedtime, so David could
easily take in the scene of confusion. People milled around and
looked either shocked or else were talking animatedly. But there
was no Kaiser and none of his personal bodyguard.

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The cook was also missing, the only person who wasn’t part
of the Kaiser’s entourage. She had a small room off of the
kitchen, and though it was on the other side of the house, it was
impossible to think that she would have missed all the tumult.
Others around him had come to the same conclusion.
“She could have run away as soon as she heard the noise.”
Someone in the know shook his head and said, “Years ago, the
Kaiser had the door for the tradesmen boarded up for security.”
“So that’s why they always come through the main
hallway . . .”
David had noticed the same thing, local farmers bringing
baskets of their produce through the marble entranceway, down
the long hallway to the kitchen.
“But what about the Kaiser?” said David.
“If he didn’t die, he’s long gone,” said the one who was in the
know. He waved a hand in the direction of the hills. “He has so
many hiding places. Everywhere we go, they build a tunnel and
there’s a bunker or a retreat of some sort so that he and his
bodyguard can barricade themselves in and hold out for months
if they have to. We can’t lose the leader of the free world!” There
was general laughter at this.
Tunnels and bunkers weren’t something that David and his
father had. At best, they could hope that a courageous bodyguard
would take a bullet for them, but if anyone chose to blow up
New Buckingham Palace, the Royal Family had no place to
retreat to if they survived, only to the goodwill of their people.
“Who saw the Kaiser last?” someone called out.
“He was in the drawing room when I left,” said someone else.
“And I’m pretty sure I was the last to leave.”
“No, I was,” said David. “He went to the library and I did too.
But he left ahead of me. I didn’t see the Kaiser go upstairs,
though.”
“Well, the fact that his bodyguard is gone is a good sign.
They’d be searching for his body if they weren’t protecting it.”
There was general agreement. David found it disturbing that
all around, the Kaiser’s possible death was only a matter for
discussion, not tears.
“Thank God we won’t have young Willy ruling over us for
awhile,” said another. More agreement. And then they all
returned to the villa and despite the lateness of the hour and the

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absence of the cook, convened in the kitchen where one of the

footmen made scrambled eggs on the griddle while the butler
buttered toast. A pot of coffee was brewed. The lack of the
Kaiser and his personal bodyguard had lightened the atmosphere.
They were seated around an enormous kitchen table and the
conversation was on the gossip of the day. The Kaiser wanted his
youngest and still unmarried sister to wed a Danish cousin and
prince. She, on the other hand, was having a scandalous love
affair with an untitled U-boat Captain.
Listening, David learned that the Kaiser had arranged
marriages for all of his sisters, sometimes over the objections of
his mother, the Dowager Empress. With the help of his prime
minister, Frederick had evaluated all possible suitors and those at
the table roared with laughter as the butler did an imitation of
the Kaiser’s prime minister who would always look concerned
and murmur about “unpredictable consequences and
unpredictable trouble” when discussing any of the men in
question.
“So, does Your Highness have any sisters?” the butler asked
David, filling David’s mug with more coffee.
The staff of European royalty seemed to know very little
about North American royalty, David thought.
“No,” he replied. He didn’t tell him that his mother had been
so turned off by childbirth that she had refused to provide any
spare heirs for the throne.
Instead, he asked the butler whether any of the locals, apart
from merchants, ever visited Achillieon. David was still
pondering the bomb and who might have planted it. The cook
had seemed rather innocuous, in his opinion.
“No, thank God,” said the butler. Then he relayed for their
general amusement how one local fishmonger had recently
entered the villa with a basket of his wares and ended up
encountering the Kaiser in the front foyer. The fishmonger had
dropped to his knees and proclaimed with great seriousness,
“May Your Majesty live forever. And may all of Your Majesty’s
enemies be sent to the scaffold.”
“I do believe the All-Highest was quite pleased with the man
and his remarks,” said the butler. “All of his enemies are in the
Reichstag,” he explained to David. “Only the army and the navy
have his ear. One must put on a uniform to be heard by him.”

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It was a telling conversation. To those closest to him, the

Kaiser was someone to be humored, hardly the view he held of
himself as that of the man wearing the most powerful crown in
the world.
And then the conversation turned to the Kaiserin.
David’s impression of the Kaiserin was of a mild-mannered
consort, the Mutter of her people. But one of the footmen
delighted in telling the rest of the group about a moment of
abandon to emotion when the Kaiserin had run through the
corridors of the New Palace in Potsdam in pursuit of the fleeing
Kaiser.
The image hardly fit the stately lady he had met at the railway
station with his parents and the Aunt he loved to talk theology
with. But her main grievance seemed to center on the education
of their boys. The Kaiser wanted all his sons in military school,
not just the older ones. The Kaiserin refused to allow the
younger boys out of her sight, if the footman was to be believed,
an obvious falsity since she had come all the way to Canada
without them.
In addition, the Kaiserin’s nerves were said to be fragile. The
Kaiser’s entourage was ruthless in mocking her for her incessant
need to be with the Kaiser or to have him participate in “nursery
activities,” as they called them. To David, Effie didn’t sound
particularly neurotic, just a woman who loved her husband and
family. His own mother was at the other end of the spectrum.
She had born one male child because it was expected of her and
then had moved on to other things.
The party concluded their criticism of Effie with some
discussion about her outfits, said to be chosen by the Kaiser for
their ostentatiousness rather than their fashion sense. One man
remarked that her sapphire necklace and matching earrings
always made him think of over-ripe blueberries.
And then, since night had turned to morning, chairs were
scrapped back and everyone returned to their rooms, or what was
left of them. There was some doubling-up in order to
accommodate those who had lost walls or had dust and debris
scattered all over their rooms.
David was left to himself. He found his room, more or less, as
he had left it. Still concerned about the Kaiser, but now
exhausted, he fell onto his bed and was asleep within minutes.

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The Kaiser returned to his villa the next day, invigorated by

outwitting his enemies once again and refreshed by a night’s sleep
in an unknown hideout, rubbing his hands together at the
prospect of archaeological work and ferreting out terrorists.
The entourage and the servants returned to their demure
servitude and a simple breakfast of oatmeal, boiled eggs and
toast prepared by two footmen. The same two footmen were
dispatched to the village to hire locals to begin work on repairs to
the villa while everyone else was expected to be at the dig-site.
In the afternoon, a royal battleship arrived at the island,
having been summoned after the explosion from some hidden
bunker. Frederick and David were driven to the docks and went
aboard to have a full repast, catch up on telegrams and
commandeer a new cook for Achilleion. (Some of the Kaiser’s
bodyguard was already scouring the island for the original cook,
presuming her to be the chief suspect in the bombing. “A
Communist, no doubt,” Frederick had concluded when she didn’t
show up to cook their morning meal.)
“Read this,” said Frederick, tossing down a telegram for David
to read. They were in the officer’s mess, with a silver coffee pot
between them and delicate white mugs with the Hohenzollern
family crest on them. The table had been cleared of its other
dishes.
David read the German prime minister’s report of the worker
unrest in Germany. The Prime Minister begged his Kaiser to
return and crush it.
“I’ll crush it,” said the Kaiser, when David handed him back
the telegram. “But you’ve got me thinking, lad. Sometimes one
has to stoop to conquer.”
With this enigmatic remark, he added the telegram to a stack
of others that he wanted to reply to while still aboard the
battleship. Effie and the boys had all sent him personal telegrams.
David was working on a telegram for his parents.
When they took their telegrams to the Marconi Room for the
telegram officer to send, the Kaiser’s first reply was to his prime
minister.
With a strong, stately voice, the Kaiser instructed his prime
minister to take action and then with great detail, instructed him

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on exactly what kind of action to take. David listened with

amazement.
Despite his rapidly moving fingers, the telegram officer’s eyes
briefly met David’s. His eyes were as wide as David’s and he knew
what the man was thinking.
They were in the presence of a miracle.

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O ur participation in the Kirkuk Riots, as the government

is now calling them, put us and Yusuf and the
Communist Party in a dangerous position.
All the usual meeting places have to be abandoned and now
the Communist Party of Baghdad meets in a home in the Bab
ash-Shaikh district in Baghdad, where we gather to put together
leaflets to protest the arrest and deportation of the trade union
leaders. We see Antony now and then—he still prefers to be on
the sabotage team—and he warns us that there must be a spy in
our midst because the police have started arresting some of the
people in his small circle.
Although the house in Bab ash-Shaikh doesn’t get raided, the
same thing starts happening to us—Communist Party members
are being arrested and deported from Baghdad to the smaller
towns in Iraq. In order to avoid arrest, the top leaders just
disappear and even Yusuf can’t find them.
“It’s normal,” says Toby, running a weary hand across his
forehead. Our home in Baghdad is still the convent and I feel
relatively safe here. “It could be anyone, one of the students, who
knows?”

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I agree. It’s happened in Canada enough. As soon as an

official Communist Party is organized, the police send in
supposed sympathizers to spy on it. Even if there aren’t any
arrests, one has to always assume there are spies for the police
present at meetings.

Toby looks tired the next day. It could be from effort, it could
be from the dogs that seem to howl all night in this city. He
hardly eats the lentils and eggs and bread left for us outside our
door by the nuns. I run a hand through his wavy, damp hair. He
feels feverish, obviously worn out, but he’s not discouraged.
“It’s all on track,” he says, a few times, almost to himself, while
I fix my hair up to keep it from sticking to the back of my neck.
At least the weather is cooling down a bit.
But on our way to the Bab ash-Shaikh district, there are
dramatic headlines in all the newspapers—Arabic and German.
The Kaiser has come out with a startling statement regarding the
unrest in the Ruhr region and the striking workers. He blames the
mine-owners. Productivity is up. The export of German products
is up. The workers just want to share in the prosperity created by
their labour. The owners aren’t generous toward their workers.
The news has literally stopped Toby in his tracks. After buying
a German-language newspaper from a young boy, he is reading it
in the middle of the busy sidewalk, ignoring the people and
animals that have to move around him.
“The Kaiser has ordered an increase in wages,” he says,
translating as he reads it out loud. “If the owners do not comply,
the Kaiser will order the immediate withdrawal of government
troops and allow the workers the freedom to express their
frustrations.”
My eyes widen.
“He has announced to his cabinet that if necessary, the
workers can burn down the villas of the wealthy owners if that’s
what it takes to make them give in. He has issued a message to
the workers that all Germans are under his care and he will not
allow the workers to be ruthlessly exploited.”
Toby is too stunned to continue reading or walking. I take the
newspaper from him and finish the article. In addition to all of
this shocking news, the Kaiser has announced an end to child
labour and a reduction in the number of hours in the work week.

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When we finally do arrive at the house of meeting, all the

Communists are in a stir.
We come into the room to find them discussing how it has
just been broadcast on the radio that the Kaiser has called for a
European conference in Berlin to discuss labour unrest and to
settle the differences between owners and labourers.
Toby is pale.
“It’s a play for power, nothing more,” he says, joining Yusuf
who is already sitting at the front on a wooden chair. “But will
the people see it? And if it does work, and the Kaiser becomes
the champion of Socialism, then there’s no hope that it will truly
represent our interests . . .”
Yusuf nods. The whole room is buzzing.
“If power comes to the people through the Kaiser, what does
it matter as long as it comes?” calls out one man.
“But it won’t,” says Toby, waving the paper. “Don’t you see?
The Kaiser is not a Socialist and never will be. He’ll work with
the moderate elements, that is to say, the working men who
support the Kaiser. The Kaiser will never turn his power over to
the people . . .”
But the room is not convinced.
“If we could bring the Kaiser to Iraq to see what we suffer
every day . . .”
The suggestion that the concerns of Iraq be brought to the
Kaiser’s attention gains in popularity and soon it is only Yusuf
and Toby who do not agree.
“Brothers! Brothers!” Yusuf holds up his hands. “We cannot
entrust our freedom to the Kaiser in Germany! We must gain our
freedom right here in Iraq!” He continues to expound on the
idea, switching back and forth between Arabic and English to
make his point that even if the Kaiser were to intervene on
behalf of the workers of Iraq, the fact that the German Kaiser
has any say at all on the conditions of the Iraqi workingman is an
insult to all Arabs.
Slowly, his appeal wins them back to their commitment to the
revolt.

If the Communists in Iraq are stirred up, we learn over the

next few days that the Social Democrats in Germany are even
more so.

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While the Kaiser issues orders from his villa in Corfu, the
anti-Socialist laws stay in place in Germany. These laws allow for
agitators to be relocated and for Socialist publications to be
suppressed.
“But at least there is a Social Democrat party in Germany,”
says Yusuf. The events in Germany are still the main topic of
discussion in the midst of the usual Party work in Iraq.
“But have you noticed what’s happening?” says Toby, to the
few members who are present at the meeting today. Even in Iraq,
he has managed to get a copy of The Daily Worker. It’s the only
newspaper Toby trusts because they print the speeches of the
Socialists and their enemies verbatim, rather than editing and
misrepresenting any of the speakers. “The Daily Worker points out
that despite recent developments, for years, the Kaiser has
watered down the Social Democrats to the point of near-
ineffectiveness. It says here . . .” he hits the paper, “that there has
been a gradual replacement of the educated urban Socialists with
the uneducated workers from the rural areas.”
“How does that help the Kaiser?” one of the Arabs asks.
“Because the Kaiser is a master at manipulation,” says Toby.
“He lives with the overweening belief that the true German is the
man in the field. The man who truly loves his king. He wants to
recreate Socialism in Germany but with him as its benefactor.
He’ll win over the workingman with his paternalistic goodwill but
nothing important will be achieved. No laws will be passed that
really benefit or protect the workers.”
“He never did pass any legislation, did he?” I say.
“Exactly!” says Toby. “He just ordered an end to child labour
and an increase in wages. But if he changes his mind in the
future, there’s nothing to protect the child labourer from being
sent back into the mines or the wages from dropping again.”
But the dwindling numbers at the Communist Party meetings
suggest that a lot of people would rather trust the Kaiser than
put their own lives out into the fray.
And three days later, the warning from Antony about a spy in
our midst is confirmed.
The Iraqi government has just announced a new conscription
plan. The idea isn’t that unusual for this part of the world. But
the money that will fund the new uniforms and the additional
weapons was originally in the budget for the creation of a dam

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that would have improved agriculture in the south. Already, the

tribes are spontaneously revolting at the idea of losing their dam
and having to give their sons to the government’s army.
However, over a dinner of falafels, Toby points out to Yusuf
that in the long run, conscription will bring together sons of
sheiks with sons of merchants and workers, all of them trained
and armed. With some gentle nudging from the Communist
conscripts, a military coup would become not only possible, but
probable.
“You’ll have to convince the Party,” says Yusuf, shaking his
head and wiping some tahini sauce off his face with a napkin. We
are in a very busy, very crowded little restaurant on Rashid Street.
“Most of them see it as a way for the Kaiser to build up his
Brown Army, as the Germans call it. They want the dam.” He
glances at his watch. We had to stand in a long line for a table and
now we are running late.
But that line turns out to be fortuitous because as we turn the
final corner to our meeting place, the Iraqi army is escorting all
the familiar faces of the Communist Party into a waiting truck.
Yusuf gasps and would remain standing there, mouth agape,
if Toby didn’t yank him back around the corner. I’m already
hiding behind a large potted flowering bush that someone has
outside a door.
We return to the convent taking Yusuf, now a fugitive, with us.
“Can you hide among the tribes?” Toby asks, as soon as we
are behind our closed door.
Yusuf shakes his head.
“Desert etiquette works against us. The Germans send out a
mounted section to the district they think you’re hiding in. They
stay at the headman's house until he gets tired of being
hospitable to them and you are then summoned to appear at his
house and give yourself up.”
I expect Yusuf to be the one who needs consoling, but at this
moment, it is Toby who collapses on the bed.
“Do not worry,” says Yusuf. “I will be fine.”
“That’s good,” says Toby from the bed. “But how do we go
forward without a Party?” he asks, wearily.
I can tell the continual work and heat is getting to him. His
face is pale despite the tan he’s gotten since coming to this sun-
scorched country.

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“Simple,” says Yusuf, pulling a chair over to sit down beside

Toby. “We go to the imams!”

The next day, we are in line with all of the pilgrims who are
waiting for the double-decker tram to Khadmain. It is another
hot day and I am fanning myself with a hand fan Yusuf
purchased for me. He and Toby are arguing about conscription.
Regardless of Toby seeing the long-term benefits of it for the
furtherance of Communism, Yusuf is telling him that the Imams
of Islam see it as being a work of infidels, creating an army to
fight for German imperialism rather than for Allah.
All around us, native Iraqis are talking in Arabic. The only
other language anyone here bothers to learn is German. Only the
Socialists or Communists learn English or Russian.
“It is a fortuitous time for the Socialists,” Yusuf continues.
“The Shiites in Iraq have always stayed close to the Shiites in
Persia. The Germans have never been able to get more than a
foothold in Persia, so they are afraid of the Persians. And lately,
the Imam of Persia has been calling for the tribes to rise up in
the name of Islam. It is an affront to Islam to be ruled by
infidels.”
“Sounds promising,” says Toby. I’m glad that Toby seems back
to normal this morning.
Yusuf nods. “And the tribes are the ones with the weapons.”
Yusuf lowers his voice slightly. “Both in the north and the south.
And the Germans have never been able to entirely control the
guns held by the tribes although lately they have been more
ruthless about guns coming in from Persia. This angers the tribes.
When we overthrow the Germans together, we will go our
separate ways. Those who conquer for Islam will take back the
mosques but the Socialists will have control of the oil
installations.”
“Who will have control of the government?”
“This remains to be worked out,” says Yusuf, smiling. “But it
is safe to assume the tribes will stay out of the cites. And it is
only in the south that they are motivated by Shiite unity. The
north is our true strength because they are connected to our
Socialist brothers in Syria and Kurdistan.”
The tram comes and the line that formed turns into a jostling
mass. No one wants to have to wait another hour in the hot sun

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for the next one. The Khadmain mosque is only two and a half
miles away, but it would be an uncomfortable walk in this heat.
Most of the seats are filled and the only remaining three
together are on the top deck, out in the sun.
I soon discover it isn’t just the sun, it’s the dust too.
Outside the city, it is bumpy and the amount of dust increases,
but rose trees line the road and give off an exquisite scent. In the
distance are palm groves.
“I still don’t see how we can lead the tribes . . .” says Toby.
“We don’t,” says Yusuf. He nods his head toward a young man
reading an Arabic paper and tells us that right now the front page
is devoted to the story in the south that has all of Baghdad
enthralled, the ongoing saga of the sheik we met, Sheik Habibi.
“Of course, the German newspapers don’t portray him in
such a positive manner,” said Yusuf, smiling.
“I’m still concerned by the opposing forces of Islam and
Socialism,” says Toby.
“Do not be, brother,” says Yusuf. “They are not as
incompatible as you might think. One of our poets, Ma'ruf ar-
Rasafi, stood up at the inauguration of our new House of
Deputies and said, ‘I am a Communist...but my communism is
Islamic for it is written in the Sacred Book, “And in their wealth
there is a right for the beggar and the deprived.” And it was the
Prophet that said, “Take it from their wealthy and return it to
their poor.” Was that not communism? Who would then but out
of ignorance resist this principle?’”
“Wow!” says Toby. “How did the Germans take that?”
“Not too well. But what could they do? He is a popular poet
and if harm were to come to him, every man in the street would
take up arms against the government.”
“Then why doesn’t he lead the revolution?”
Yusuf laughs.
“It is enough that he speaks with beauty and candour. Come,”
says Yusuf, motioning for us to stand. “We are almost there . . .”

The Imams of Khadmain have no regard for my place in the

world of Socialism, only noting that I am a female. And so I am
left to myself.
The ornate and enormous mosque with its four golden
minarets dominates the town of Khadmain. I wander around the

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souk by myself for awhile, tolerating the stares of the mostly

male population.
The aroma of spices and food is heavenly. With a lot of
pointing and holding out coins, I manage to purchase a kebab
sold in a little shop—meat, tomato and onion broiled on a spike
and then transferred to bread.
There is plenty to explore in the roofed bazaar with its narrow
streets, but eventually, it is the pale and sunburnt German
soldiers patrolling who drive me back to the mosque, with their
leering and calling out obscenities in German that wouldn’t be
tolerated by any fraulein in Berlin.
“Kartoffel!” I want to yell at them. German potatoes! Instead,
I increase my pace to get back to the holy site, which appears
blessedly free of German patrols.
I try to enter the mosque but am told by a near-frantic
attendant, “Bab al-Fatima!” as he shoos me away. After circling
the mosque in bewilderment, I figure out that Bab al-Fatima is
the entrance for women.
At this door, I follow the example around me and remove my
shoes, giving them to a female attendant who puts them in a
cubbyhole. Silently, she hands me a headscarf to put on and I do
my best to arrange it like the other women entering to pray.
I find myself in a spacious courtyard, with people moving
about on a polished floor, all knowing exactly where they want to
go. It’s white and ornate and full of light, beautiful, but
intimidating. I don’t want to accidently wander into the wrong
room. Toby is here somewhere, in one of the smaller rooms. We
are going to meet in a small, nearby coffeehouse, but when I
passed it on my way to the souk, it was full of men.
I follow some of the women until I come to a carpeted
portion of the mosque dedicated to prayer.
I can fake it, I decide, since this is probably the safest place in
Khadmain.
But I soon become aware that someone is watching me. Most
of the other women in the mosque are focused on their
devotions or their young children. This one is a young woman
without any children clustered around her and though she is
wearing the indistinguishable black abaya of Islam, I recall that
she was on the tram with us.

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Though she is going through the motions of prayer, she most

definitely had her eyes on me at one point.
Well, that’s normal, I decide. I do stand out. Even wearing a
kaftan from the souk that Yusuf suggested I purchase, I am
obviously not from around here. And my hijab is slipping from
my head. I don’t know what technique the women here use to
keep it in place. It is not necessary to wear a head covering when
one is with Communists or Christians so this my first time with
one on.
One loses touch with time in a mosque, but Yusuf warned me
that the meeting with the imams could take awhile. It’s better to
be here than waiting in the coffeehouse. After all, Toby and
Yusuf can sit for hours drinking coffee without anyone even
glancing at them. I would stand out even more there than I do
here. And the heat of Iraq seems less severe in this room with
white walls and pillars and high ceilings.
I’m trying to follow the movements of the people around me.
I don’t know how they do it, pray and bow and look to the left
and the right. I don’t understand any of it, but in all fairness, they
don’t understand my creed. I don’t see the point of religion.
It’s the only point of contention between Toby and me. He
has his religion, his Socialism driven by an ethereal idea that God
wants him to bring justice to the poor, food to the hungry. He
has a bunch of scriptures that he likes to quote every now and
then. But not to me. Only to fellow believers, as he calls them. At
some level, I can see that he’s a Christian first and a Communist
second, although to anyone else, his two creeds are seamless and
indistinguishable from one another.
I wish I had his faith. No, that’s not true. His faith is
foolishness. What I really wish is that he didn’t have it.
Exhausted by trying to look like a real Muslim, I move to the
perimeters of the hall of prayer and just sit and try to look like
I’m meditating.
While women and children come and go, the young woman
from the tram remains. And she glances back at me, periodically,
though in the guise of bending over to do her prayers.
Now I’m really sure she has more than a casual curiosity about
me, particularly since when I stand up and exit back to the
courtyard, she follows me.

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It’s not the first time I’ve been followed by a government

agent. The King’s men are often sitting a table or two away from
Toby and I when we eat out at a restaurant or hovering around
when Toby is preaching in the park.
Even in the Communist Party back home, we have
government agents. I remember the day we discovered one of
them. He had a small camera in his palm and he was taking
photos of each person present at the meeting. He had been a
fairly recent convert to Communism, but had seemed sincere.
He had been smart enough to only take photos when
everyone was arguing—a common occurrence at Party meetings.
But his finger must have quivered and he accidently took a photo
when there was one of those rare moments of silence. The
person beside him heard the click and tore the camera out of his
hand while another brawny Party member pinned him down.
Most were ready to lynch him, but Toby stepped in and
suggested a better plan. A double agent. But first he wanted to
know why the young man had betrayed us.
It wasn’t that shocking. He had become a Communist in the
first place because he lived in one of the shantytowns with his
mother and older sister. The mother cleaned homes for the rich,
the sister was a prostitute, although, in their family, they never
called it that. She was a “companion” or “a friend to lonely
people.”
In the King’s Canada, prostitution is illegal so the King’s men
had used that against the young man, saying that they would no
longer turn a blind eye to his sister’s source of income. It hardly
seemed a point of leverage since a King’s prison is probably
about equal to a life working the streets. But for the young man
and his mother, it would have meant starvation. He couldn’t work
because he had a partially crippled back and his mother didn’t
make enough for both of them. The sister had an alderman who
she regularly “visited” with and who was more than generous
with not only his money, but also letting the sister help herself to
teacakes and crumpets to bring home to her kinfolk.
Toby said that it was all morally dubious. Would the sister be
interested in a career change?
No, the young man said. She liked the alderman well enough.
Then Toby had sat down and explained to the young man why
Communism was not only a possible solution to the world’s

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problems, but the only solution. The young man was in tears,
nodding and saying he had known that when he had joined, but
somewhere along the way he had lost that when the King’s men
had interrogated him.
But he was all too happy to share what he had learned in his
interrogations.
He had been asked if he had enough of a following to create a
counterfeit Communist organization. Of course, the crippled
young man had no confidence in his ability to compete with Toby
in that regard.
He had been asked to return to the Party and to report back
to the King’s men on a weekly basis. Furthermore, it had been
promised to him that as soon as they had sufficient grounds for
arresting all present, he too would be arrested and tried, so that
no one would ever know he was the infiltrator. He would serve
his short time in prison and then return to the Party to continue
his spy career and not a single person would ever imagine that he
wasn’t a true Party man.
In fact, the King’s men assured him that his arrest would only
add to his reputation and they were confident that someday, he
may even end up in a position of Party leadership. The benefit to
the King’s men if that happened was obvious.
So that day, the young man became a double agent. He meets
with the King’s men and feeds them semi-truths. Toby says that a
semi-truth is harder to detect than an outright falsehood.
He isn’t Toby’s only source as to what is going on in the inner
rooms of the King’s authorities. There are a few double agents
among the constabulary, particularly the ones who patrol the
shantytowns and have soft hearts that are sickened by the poverty
they see.
As annoying as it is to be followed, it gives me the courage to
go see if Toby and Yusuf are in the coffeehouse. And it turns out
that Toby and Yusuf have seats in the wicker chairs that line the
coffeehouse where the men can watch passersby in the souk
while they smoke hookah pipes. Toby moves so that I can be
between them. And the young woman passes by, but eventually
lingers in front of a colourful display of hijabs.
“I was followed,” I murmur. “She’s over there looking at a
turquoise scarf.”
Yusuf looks concerned. So does Toby.

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“Well, that’s no surprise,” Yusuf then says. “With all the

arrests, someone has told the Germans that you’re here.” He’s
scanning the souk, as if looking for other agents and other
dangers. “I think it’s time that you take Felicity back to Canada.”
Reluctantly, Toby nods.
“I’d like to stay a little longer. I don’t feel we made progress
today.”
“We don’t know that,” says Yusuf. “The imams will discuss it
among themselves. It is out of our hands now.”
“I understand,” says Toby, although he looks disappointed.
“But what will you do?”
Yusuf looks thoughtful.
“Something I probably should have done a long time ago. Go
back to Sheik Habibi. I’ve been too busy thinking about worker’s
unions that I’ve failed to see what is right in front of me.”

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T he holiday at Corfu ended and David returned to Kiel

with the Kaiser.
The Kaiser had to immediately board the royal train to
take him back to Berlin. But David remained in the port town—
once again, the nomadic backpacker. The Kaiser had been
scandalized by his desire to travel without an escort and had
insisted that at the very least, a pair of detectives would follow
him at a discreet distance until he was aboard the ocean liner for
home. David’s acting troupe had long since returned to Canada.
Now, in a seaside café filled with international sailors drinking
German ale and with his two detectives at a table beside him,
David was sipping an excellent African coffee and perusing all of
the European newspapers. A port town always had news that was
up-to-date.
Since the Kaiser’s shocking proclamation, things had settled
down in the Ruhr region. Mine owners had decided to increase
wages and shorten hours rather than have their villas burned to
the ground by irate workers.
David smiled with satisfaction. That was the advantage of an
autocrat—change came quickly when he so desired.

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The newspapers touched on events around the world. It was

said that the sun never set on the German Empire so anything
that affected German interests was newsworthy.
There was an ongoing tribal revolt in Iraq. David read the
lengthy story with interest. Canada had no Middle Eastern
concerns and very few Muslims, so it wasn’t something he knew
much about.
A main German pipeline had been sabotaged, set on fire by
Arab tribes in southern Iraq. David read with fascination about
the desert warriors who blackened their faces with charcoal—
Bedouin war paint that meant they were ready to kill.
Town Communists had collaborated with tribesmen to mine
roads going into Baghdad and in the past few days, the uprising
had made it to some of the smaller towns as tribesmen with guns
rode in the streets. Government troops had fought back and the
rebels had been forced to retreat to the mosques, knowing that
German troops were under orders not to desecrate the sacred
precincts. This time, the Germans had decided that crushing the
rebels was more important than offending religious sensibilities.
Like a story with a happy ending, the newspaper article
reported that in two days, 9 Arabs were killed, and no Germans
were even injured. All men whose shoulders showed the bruises
of rifle butts, 300 in total, were now in a concentration camp and
Baghdad was currently under a 24-hour curfew.
David kept turning the pages of the newspaper. Africa.
Australia. Asia. Even obscure Pacific islands had German
newsmen covering events there. Canada wasn’t even mentioned.
He didn’t like that. Germany was always in Canadian papers.
This indifference to his nation suggested to him that the average
German didn’t consider Canada important.
David left the newspapers behind for another patron and
exited the café. He was booked on the Empress Augusta, first-class
(the Kaiser had insisted) and would be on it in two days. Strolling
down to the enormous dockside where most of the Kaiser’s navy
was on display, David mused about his prestigious uncle.
He had seen power while he was in Germany. Real power. It
wasn’t just in these enormous battleships, because Canada had an
impressive fleet too. It was in the Kaiser himself. He was power.
He, too, had a Reichstag, as his father back in Canada had a
Parliament, but the Kaiser hardly paid attention to it. He simply

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barked out orders to his ministers and expected them to carry

them out. While David’s father seemed to carry leadership like a
burden, the Kaiser enjoyed his position.
Most born into leadership could feel the draw, the lust to
enjoy power for the sake of power. And David was no exception.
Which is why he deliberately surrounded himself with ordinary
people, students mostly. For the first part of his life, he had been
brought up by flattering servants, people giving him (in
retrospect) baseless compliments about how great he was. But
going to university and spending time with his peers, he knew he
was no more and no less talented than anyone else.
And he had his Bible and Jesus to remind him that the
greatest in the kingdom of heaven was the greatest servant. And
it had made sense in a way that all the royal court around him
didn’t. It spoke to his soul and his sense of what was right rather
than just to his passing desires.
He was aware of his solitary position.
The Kaiser had six sons and was already arranging future
marriages for them to prominent German princesses from
military families. Alliances were everything to the Kaiser. His
sisters were scattered throughout Europe in marriages that were
meant to secure Germany’s borders. The Kaiserin’s brothers were
his generals.
David had none of that and never would. Even if he did get
married and his wife was willing to produce six children, who
would he marry them to in order to strengthen Canadian
interests? His borders were the oceans and the Americans.
David strolled the endless quays. Ocean liners, barges and
pleasure crafts mixed with the Kaiser’s Imperial Navy. Goods
from the Empire were carried ashore on backs and carts and
moved onto trucks to carry them further inland.
As David took one last look at the busy scene and began his
return to his hotel, he continued to think about his own position.
Crown Prince to a nation. Responsible for its safety. And yet, his
personal convictions were that a Christian did not take up a
sword and that if someone were to slap him on one cheek even
now, David would let him slap the other cheek.
But the Kaiser’s Christian morality didn’t seem to extend to
national security, only to matters of the bedroom. Any sexual

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impropriety meant that you lost your position in the German

court.
One of the matters they had discussed on the sea journey
back to Kiel was the Poison Letter Scandal of the 1890’s. It was a
sordid story from the days of the reign of Wilhelm II and one
David had never heard about.
German aristocrats of the day had started receiving letters
detailing all sorts of sexual sins—mostly adulterous affairs, but
some of them quite sensational involving spouses taking both
male and female lovers.
“Now, some of the accusations probably weren’t true,” said
the Kaiser, as they had sat on the deck. “But some of them most
certainly were.”
Hundreds of letters were received over the next few years.
Wilhelm II’s Master of Ceremonies had been arrested—and
later acquitted—for supposedly writing them. But the trial itself
did as much damage as the letters because then the press could
gleefully follow it. But the newspapers less gleefully asked, why
“the men in the immediate entourage of the Kaiser” were
permitted to “flout all the laws of the land, all the prohibitions
of the church?” Afterwards, a dual had been fought by the
Master of Ceremonies to defend his honour, causing him to kill a
man. Friendships had been destroyed as a result of the contents
of the letters.
“The letters would have had no power had there not been
truth in some of them,” said Frederick. “Wilhelm knew that.
Unfortunately, in the end, it came out that it was his Kaiserin’s
brother writing the letters and he was powerless to bring him to
justice without bringing shame to the whole royal family.”
The lesson for Frederick had been clear—no impropriety in
his court meant that he could live without fear of scandal.
“We must never give the anarchists fuel for their irreverent
and godless fires.”
But for David, it was a deeper matter. Were the teachings of
Christ for laypeople only and not for kings? Should he be like the
Kaiser and talk about the Prince of Peace all the while turning
his nation into a war machine? Was it sufficient to merely abstain
from sexual impropriety and exclude all those who didn’t?
Besides, he had had a glimpse of the incredible conniving that
went on in the Kaiser’s court. It led everyone to work for his own

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interests and not the interests of the Kaiser’s subjects. To gain

favour with the Kaiser was the objective of most of His
entourage and in his desire to be flattered, the Kaiser was blind
to the ineffectiveness of his ministers to really achieve any good
for the nation.
Now David was back in his hotel room with the two
detectives standing guard outside the door.
The Germans had a mania for cleanliness and he found his
bedding hanging outside on the balcony to air out, the maid not
expecting him to return to his room so soon.
He decided not to unsettle her and went back down the grand
staircase of the Victorian Hotel, a fairly recently-built structure in
this town of Gothic architecture.
There was a wine festival going on in the city centre. Tents
had been erected all around the enormous cobblestone square
and samplers were enjoying themselves at tables and chairs. Every
country in the German Empire had sent samples for this festival,
though clearly, it was German wine that dominated.
Recalling a proverb in the Bible about it not being for kings to
drink wine, nor for rulers to crave beer, David passed through it
all. He wasn’t hungry, having finished off a seafood platter back
at the café, but he couldn’t resist one of the vendor’s enormous
pretzels, which he ate as he walked, enjoying the atmosphere.
Like most of Germany, Kiel was a town full of picturesque
scenes. Timbered homes had window boxes full of blooming
flowers. Even beyond the square, the road remained cobblestone.
German homeowners and storekeepers didn’t limit themselves to
neutral colours. Houses could be any colour in the pastel palette
and doors and window shutters could be as bright as the owner
wanted. Overhanging signs didn’t just advertise what a store sold,
but were decorated with pictures of the items themselves, or
even scenes of people using their products.
He paused, still with half a pretzel, to glance through
enormous wooden doors that led into a quiet cathedral. No
worshippers today and no sign to indicate that a service was held
on any kind of a regular basis.
Above the door, cut into the stone was a cross and the
German words, “In this sign, Conquer.”
The cathedral was a testimony to German medieval grandeur
and her place in Christian history, a reminder that both

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Constantine and Charlemagne had tarried in Germany. But in

this land of Luther, it was expected that the chapels should be
filled with the nation’s worshippers while the cathedrals stood
silent and cold. In fact, from talking to the Kaiser, David had
gotten the impression that his uncle regarded Catholics with grim
toleration and even considered his Muslims subjects to be closer
to the truth than the German Catholics.
Continuing down the street lined with shops, he came to
another smaller square where there was an outdoor produce
market and young people hanging around an enormous stone
fountain. He paused to take in the vibrant colours of vegetables
and large bouquets of fresh flowers.
The young people around the fountain reminded him of his
own friends. Knowing it would cause his detectives
consternation, David nevertheless decided to join them.
At first, he was ignored. But since his appearance matched
theirs, soon one of the young men nodded at him and began
talking in German.
David had learned German from such a young age that it was
natural for him to reply with ease.
“I’m from Canada,” he answered to the man’s question. “On
vacation.”
The man nodded, like that’s all he really wanted to know.
“Do you hear much about Canada here in Germany?” David
asked, aware that the detectives were close by but that the water
gushing from the fountain and the noise of the crowds out
shopping would prevent them from hearing anything he said.
The young man laughed.
“Sorry, no,” he said. “The newspapers are too full of Kaiser
Freddie to bother with much else.”
David knew that that wasn’t entirely true. The newspapers
covered the entire German Empire.
“He seems like a strong leader,” said David, cautiously. “We
have a king in Canada, too.”
“Well, good luck to him,” said the young man, still grinning.
“Because Kaiser Freddie wants to rule the world.”
David smiled pleasantly, glancing at the detectives. They were
in the process of being shooed away by a large farmer’s wife who
didn’t want them lingering unnecessarily in front of her display
of eggs in baskets.

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“Are people very political here?” he asked.

Some of the young people glanced at one another and the
young man who had talked to him suddenly looked cold.
“Your German’s awfully good for a Canadian,” he said, almost
accusingly.
They think I’m a government spy, David realized.
“In Canada, we all learn German,” he said. But it was too late.
He had lost them. They talked amongst themselves, ignoring him.
It was a lesson learned too late. There was nothing left for
David to do but return to his hotel room.

On the first-class deck, David was going through all the

newspapers he had purchased before boarding the ocean liner.
The detectives were mercifully left behind on shore.
There was another article about the situation in Iraq.
Although some Communist leaders were in prison, the ones
who were still free were in the streets, said to be stirring up
people in favour of a coup. They were marching down the main
artery of Baghdad, Rashid Street, leading the workers of the city.
Amongst the pilgrims to Najaf and Kerbala, there were said to
be Communist agitators.
Strikes were breaking out all over the country. Some of the
strikes would merely be an inconvenience to the Iraqis
themselves, the article reported. That of the workers at the
National Cigarette Company in Baghdad, for example. But the
striking workers at the Iraqi Petroleum Company in Kirkuk were
of concern to German interests.
David guessed that the workers must be doing it for good
reasons. He had seen poverty in Toronto and Ottawa and he
imagined it must be even worse amongst the colonial peoples of
the German Empire.
Impulsively, he stood and walked the length of the ship,
descending down a flight of iron stairs and walking down a
corridor that took him to the Marconi Room. He stood behind a
man in safari wear who was sending a sharp and short telegram
to a brother in Canada, heralding his return and his expectation
that he would be met at the quay as he had “quantities of skins
and furs.” He nearly bumped David as he made a quick exit.
David moved forward and caused the eyebrows of the
telegram officer to go up when he requested to send a wire to the

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Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ottawa. But the message was

transmitted. By evening, a steward was knocking on his door with
the reply.
David read it gravely.
His father’s Minister of Foreign Affairs sent his warmest
regards to the Crown Prince and his wishes for a safe passage. In
response to his question, although the Germans were not often
open about such things, he had talked directly to an instructor in
Eastern Affairs at the University of Toronto who had informed
him that in Iraq, a typical field labourer worked a 14-hour day for
45 fils. A skilled factory worker had to put in a 10-hour day for
between 40-60 fils. Child laborers could receive anywhere
between 10-40 fils.
“Pennies,” said David out loud.
He folded the telegram and put it into his Bible. He had been
in the process of dressing for dinner. But the thought of
enduring a meal with matrons in lace dresses discussing their
poodles and young men in evening wear who didn’t know one
end of a shovel from another, didn’t appeal to him.
He sat back down on his bed. How to use a shovel was about
the only thing his father had taught him. Every year, they worked
in the gardens behind New Buckingham Palace and David
developed callouses on his hands from overturning the dirt. One
thing he had learned was that labour was exhausting. And a 14-
hour day was ridiculous.
He knew his uncle couldn’t be expected to know every detail
about the German Empire he ruled over. David lingered over
this thought. Did the vastness of the German Empire excuse the
Kaiser from being responsible for everything that went on under
his rule and in his name?
He sat still, pondering, as the waning sun slowly caused his
stateroom to go from shadowy to dark.
No, it didn’t, he finally decided.
Yesterday, he had returned to the water, this time to visit the
Kaiser Wilhelm Canal. The canal ran from the Baltic Sea at Kiel
to the North Sea at Brunsbuttel, saving German ships from
having to circumvent the Jutland Peninsula. Completed in 1895,
Kaiser Wilhelm II had planned the enormous celebrations that
accompanied its opening, including a procession of Imperial
boats through the canal. When it looked like the engineers would

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not be able to complete the canal for the opening, Kaiser

Wilhelm II had simply issued a royal edict that they would
complete it.
And, of course, as history had shown, they had. And the
celebrations themselves had been a complete success. Granted,
the canal had suffered damage as a result of the Kaiser’s
insistence that his deep-sea vessels all pass through for the
opening ceremonies. But the damage had been repaired
afterwards and the canal stood testament to the power of an
imperial edict.
And if a canal could be built by imperial order, then how
much easier was it to demand that a worker have less hours and
greater wages?
His uncle’s final words to him at the train station before
boarding the royal car to Berlin, were, “People want to be led,
David.”
All very true, thought David, providing you have a good place to lead
them to.

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 Chapter Nineteen

T he Imam of Persia has issued a fatwa! Listen to this!”

Toby comes rushing into the room, waving a copy of The
Daily Worker. We are in Damascus, staying in one of the
back alley boarding houses. When we went to say goodbye to
Antony in Baghdad, he wanted to stay despite the arrests. He had
spent a night in prison having been rounded up the day we saw
the Party meeting raided, but being able to speak German, he had
convinced them that he was a newsman under cover.
Since arriving in Syria, we have watched the newspapers and
been disheartened by the recent crushing of Sheik Habibi’s
revolt. For several days, we really thought it was going to succeed.
"’In the name of Allah, the Merciful!’” Toby reads. “’Allah
said in His Holy Quran, “Let those emerge as a nation who
evoke goodness and refrain from evil!” Allah also said, “Harken
unto Allah, ye faithful, and to His messenger when he calls upon
you!” Know ye, all ye Moslems, that a jihad is your sacred duty
for the glory of the word of Allah and the salvation of others.
Hear ye, the Mosques of Iraq have been suffering at the hands of
imperialism expressed in terms of atrocities, destruction, robbery
and ruin. A Moslem cannot let himself be insulted or disgraced.

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Consequently a jihad has become imperative, the duty falling on

every Moslem to sacrifice either himself or money. The jihad is
intended to save holy Moslem Iraq from people who are playing
with its destiny. Remember, ye Moslems. Allah said in His Holy
Quran, “I will lead you to an occupation that is profitable.” The
jihad will save you from purgatory and its tortures.’"
Toby looks up with an enormous grin.
“That’s what those potatoes get for firing on a mosque.”
Over the next few days, it’s not just The Daily Worker that
reports on the happenings in Iraq. Anything that affects Iraq
affects the Syrians and their newspapers are full of the
happenings next door.
Many Iraqi towns are marching in support of the fatwa. In
Basrah, the local Communists are leading the demonstrations. In
Baghdad, Rashid Street is filled with poor workers playing the
same drums that are used in Shia processions to commemorate
the death of Husain, Mohammad’s grandson. Many of them, it is
reported, are carrying thick sticks.
Toby doesn’t want to move onto Beirut where we were
planning on boarding a Mediterranean cruiser to begin the long
journey home. The revolution in Iraq could happen any day and
he wants to be close by in order to return to support the new
Communist Party.
In the meantime, we eat falafel sandwiches and sip coffee in a
café run by a Christian family who naturally, have warmed to
Toby to such an extent that he is now considered an honorary
son in their family.

All throughout the week, strikes break out in Iraq. Workers at

the oil pumping stations, the drilling areas, the Kut barrage. The
Baghdad Railway workshops. Najaf weaving factories. Even the
menial workers at the Habbaniyyah military base are on strike.
By the end of the week, port, water and electrical installations
at Basra are all at a standstill due to the strikes inspired by the
fatwa and the Communist leadership.
But then, things turn ugly.
During one of the workers’ demonstrations in Baghdad,
police fire shots, killing three and injuring 29.
The workers retaliate by storming the radio station and
forcing German technicians to run for their lives. For the first

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time, the Left holds the airwaves. They announce, with great
optimism and boldness, a new era for Iraq, one where there will
be tremendous reforms. There will be land distribution to
individual fellahin, amnesties granted to political prisoners,
freedom of the press, free elections, prison reforms, a fairer tax
collection.
Thanks to German engineering, the broadcast signal makes it
all the way to Damascus where all the cafés tune in.
Toby listens, half-chagrinned, half-thrilled by the
announcements. It is declared that all workers now have rights
and the rights include an 8-hour workday and a fifty percent
increase in wages, effective immediately.
While men in the café cheer on behalf of their fellow Arabs,
Toby and I exchange glances. Who is going to enforce it? The
Kaiser?
“I’ll say this,” murmurs Toby. “If Kaiser Frederick speaks up
on behalf of these people, he could in one proclamation
decimate the Iraqi Communist Party.”
I nod. As much as we’d like to see these people receive
immediate support, it’s only if the Communist Party takes power
that the changes will be for the long term.
In addition to these exciting announcements, Radio Iraq has
various imams calling on believers to rise up against all foreign
forces in Iraq. Ominously for the Germans, one imam calls for
the tribes not to fire their ammunition in the air in vain.
The Communists then issue their manifesto. I recognize it
from the hours I spent sitting in a hot, stuffy room while Toby
and Yusuf worked it all out with the other Party members.
“The Manifesto of the Association Against Imperialism. To
the Workers and Peasants, to the Soldiers and Students, to All the
Oppressed! From our class comes the agonies, the sacrifices, the
tens of thousands of victims . . . The benefits go to the
financiers, the feudalists, and the higher officials . . . To our lot
has fallen only hunger, cold and ruthless disease . . . and a horde
of tax-gatherers without a touch of mercy or
humanity . . . Today, the Germans and the ruling class are
partners in a compact that aims at perpetuating the oppression
and exploitation from which we suffer . . . The oil and other raw
materials of the country have become a preserve for the German
and Iraq has been turned into an outlet for their goods and

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surplus capital and into a war base directed against neighboring

peoples . . .”
Many people in the café nod at this.
“ . . . and against any aspiration for freedom that the Arab
countries may entertain.”
There is more agreement.
“The ruling class, for its part, plunders the proceeds of taxes,
misappropriates lands and builds palaces on the shores of the
Tigris and Euphrates. The millions of peasants and workers, in
the meantime, continue to starve and bleed, and writhe in
anguish . . . We must put an end to conditions grown so unjust
and intolerable. We demand a change to the very foundations of
life, a momentous change to the advantage of all the productive
classes . . . Let us raise our voice again in the land and let it
thunder forth, striking terror into the hearts of our
oppressors . . .”
The café patrons love this line, nodding their approval.
“Let townsman and villager, worker and peasant, undivided by
sect or race and supported by revolutionary thinkers, march side
by side to bring about the first phase of the struggle . . .”
Then there is the long list of practical changes that the
Communist Party demands for the laboring man. Debt
cancellation for peasants, workers rights and freedoms . . . I know
from experience how long the list can be.
But even if the café patrons tune out all these demands, they
come to life for the final stirring words.
“Down with German imperialism! Down with all enslaving
treaties! Long live the united front against imperialism and
against the oppressors of the peasants and workers!”
But then the Germans regain control of the airwaves and it’s
back to readings from the Quran.
It has only taken Toby a week here to discover that if you
want to meet the local Socialists in Damascus, you have to attend
meetings of The Association of Arab Accord. They operate
openly without harassment, but it’s men-only so I’m left to sit in
our room in the boarding house playing Solitaire while Toby goes
out to their meetings. He doesn’t even need to go. It’s not like
they’ve called upon him to help organize a Communist Party. He
just likes the atmosphere and the company. They’re meeting four
nights a week now that so much is happening in next-door Iraq.

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He is so accepted by them that he is also invited to the more

secret meetings of The Association Against Imperialism and then
I lose him for the other nights as well.
But one night, he returns to our shared room and almost
collapses in my arms. I recognize the emotion on his face.
Despair. And then I remember why we work so well together. It’s
because I’m always here. I always understand the struggle.
“What is it?” I murmur, running my fingers through his damp
hair. “News from Iraq?”
He nods, as he sinks down, his head in my lap.
“The Kaiser’s orders are to shoot any man who does not
return to his job.”

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 Chapter Twenty

D avid read the papers with more than growing concern.

Although he hardly knew the workers of Iraq, he did
know the Kaiser of Germany. And he knew that Kaiser
Frederick had chosen economic expediency over being a
champion of the oppressed.
The workers of Iraq were being crushed. Their leaders were
being thrown into prison.
And Kaiser Frederick didn’t care if the world knew it. David
now took The Daily Worker with his morning coffee and bagel. It
wasn’t just The Daily Worker, but the European newspapers were
also reporting that the Communist leaders were being held in
filthy latrines with only 15 minutes a day access to outside air.
David had always lived with a sense that unlike most people,
he had been born into a position where he could really do
something; really make decisions that impacted lives.
He picked up The Daily Worker and went down several flights
of stairs, mostly used by the servants, to a narrow corridor where
the telegram room was, along with the palace switchboard,
several storage rooms and all the offices of the household staff.

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He entered the small telegram room where the one operator

straightened up and greeted him courteously.
He nodded. His mind was far from this room, already in
Berlin, knowing that at best his telegram would be received as a
pesky fly, at worst as an obnoxious interferer. But he knew that it
was quite possible that he was the only person in the world who
could help the oppressed workers of Iraq and God help him if
he kept silent. It was like being Esther of the Old Testament—
you knew God could do things without you, but woe to you if
you were the person God would use to bring change and yet you
chose to be apathetic.
He started by greeting his Uncle, the Kaiser, and his beloved
Aunt, the Kaiserin, sending them and their family warmest
wishes from cool Canada. He thanked them once again for their
generous hospitality and all the wonderful memories he had of
his time spent with them. The Kaiser would appreciate the
loquaciousness, he knew. There could be no sense of being stingy
despite that every word cost money and New Buckingham Palace
ran on a budget. In fact, it would be insulting to the most
powerful man in the world to scrimp with his words. So David
carried on. He mentioned that he had read with interest about
the German Empire’s Eastern holdings while in Kiel and he
continued to follow the stories out of Baghdad. “I’m wondering
if it would be magnanimous to apply the same solution as in
Ruhr to Iraq, in essence, making you the champion of the
situation. I feel strongly that what is occurring in Iraq right now
suggests to some that the Kaiser is oblivious to the situation. I
know that no one would foolishly suggest that he is uninformed,
but they might interpret a lack of intervention as . . .” David
paused. He wanted to say heartless. The telegram operator’s eyes
were already enormous. He had never sent such a telegram in his
entire career. “. . . Indifferent.” David stood silent for a moment,
hovering between thought and prayer. “I hope you do not mind
my interest in the matter. I learned much in our many
conversations and remain your student and nephew, David.”
The telegram officer exhaled. He had been holding his breath
and now his fingers rapidly pulsated on the wireless key while
David mentally reviewed the message in his mind, praying that it
would be well-received. David thanked the operator who nodded
and then returned back upstairs.

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He had his reply by the afternoon. David was in the library

when it arrived. He put down his book —an illustrated history of
the German Navy presented to his father by the Kaiser when
they had signed their treaty—and accepted the telegram from the
butler who then discreetly withdrew when David indicated that
there would be no reply.
The telegram had the same rambling quality of all of the
Kaiser’s telegrams. He asked about David’s health and that of his
parents. He thanked him for his kind interest in German holdings
in the East. He reminded David that he had done a full tour of
the Holy Land a few years back and gently insinuated that the
result of it had been an understanding of the region that David
lacked.
“We are currently in deadlock with Bavaria and Austria—
Catholics, of course—who would love to see our Protestant
values swallowed up with papacy nonsense,” he continued. “I
remain forever a knight of the realm slaying fire-breathing
dragons in my own Reichstag. Keep me in your prayers.” David
recognized the brush off. The Kaiser had more immediate
problems to think of than the labour situation in far-off Iraq.
David didn’t feel like returning to his book. For one thing, he
was hungry. He had gotten used to the German custom of
having an enormous meal at lunch and now he was back to the
light salads that his mother insisted upon for her family.
He was dividing his time between Ottawa University and New
Buckingham Palace, though hardly attending classes anymore.
The visits to the university were more a way of staying connected
to the people he had grown close to over the years, particularly
Peter. Peter was his closest friend and his friend’s conversion to
Socialism had touched something so deep in the Crown Prince
that he knew with certainty that he and his friend were now
bound together in a pact of brotherhood—comradeship—that
would change Canada. David had been testing his new belief
system on the Kaiser and he liked the way it felt even if he knew
it was the most foolish choice in the world of realpolitik.
It didn’t matter, because it was right. And David could thank a
fortuitous meeting on a ship-crossing for seeing what he should
have known all along—that God wanted him to be a different
kind of king. As Crown Prince, David had been invited one night

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to dine with the ship’s Captain on their crossing over to France.

Peter had gone off in a sulk that his best friend was dining in
first-class and had ended up encountering a young Socialist who
had spoken wonderful things to him, things he had not thought
about before—that there was a God, a God who loved the poor
and that those people who committed themselves to helping the
ever-present poor would have a far more rewarding life than if
they pursued riches.
When Peter relayed it all to David afterwards, David knew it
was exactly what had been missing from his life and that God
was speaking to him through his best friend.
Upon returning home, David had tried to talk to his father
about his vision for Canada—a Canada where all citizens had
their basic needs met. His father’s reply was that the Americans
would never allow it. Then the King had thought about it and
decided that the Kaiser wouldn’t allow it either.
David had been left with a choice. If the impoverished
Canadians were to have their basic needs met, it would not be
through his father. In time, David would take the throne. Then
he could do all he wanted to in order to bring a certain economic
equity to the country. But his father was so fearful, always looking
to the republican yet anti-Socialist south or across the sea to the
Kaiser that David felt that he might not have a throne to sit on if
he left things to his father. Fears had a way of coming to pass.
That which I have feared has come upon me.
It really wasn’t a choice. David knew he would have to
proceed regardless of his father. Too many lives, too many
people, needed him right now. Not a lifetime from now.

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 Chapter Twenty-One

W e are torn.
Stay or go? Damascus or back to Canada?
The Daily Worker reports that anyone with a
Communist Party membership or involvement in any kind of
Socialist organization in Iraq has been arrested. The outcome is
that anyone with a casual involvement in Socialism has lost all
interest in the whole thing. Even most of the leaders sign an
agreement not to engage in any further political activity.
“You can imagine that those who haven’t signed are being
persuaded to even as we sit here in comfort,” says Toby, grim,
eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
I nod. The Germans are brutes with the Semitic people,
hardly even seeming to regard them as human and certainly not
on a par with Europeans.
And the reason we are still here in Damascus is because we
have received indirect news of Yusuf. Toby is desperate to help
him. One of the members of The Association Against
Imperialism in Damascus has a second cousin who works for the
government in Baghdad and keeps his Socialist sympathies to
himself. He has been sending messages to his cousin in Iraq

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about the true state of things. He reports that the prisoners are
being regularly caned in between their interrogations. But Yusuf
is increasingly becoming a hero to the officers assigned to convey
him to and from the interrogations.
The Investigating Officer asked Yusuf who participated with
him in reorganizing the Iraqi Communist Party after the initial
arrests?
Yusuf ’s brave reply was that, “Party discipline prohibits me
from divulging the name of any of its members or laying bare
any of its organizations.”
The Investigating Officer then asked if he was aware that the
propagation of Communist ideas was liable to punishment under
the Penal Code?
Yusuf replied, “The Iraqi Penal Code is based on the German
Constitution which has conceded the freedom of belief to every
German citizen . . .” And that was all he could say before being
dragged away, once again, to be caned.
Hearing all this, Toby naturally doesn’t want to go home no
matter how bleak it seems for the Communists of Iraq. That we
might be in danger ourselves doesn’t seem relevant to him.
Personally, I think I’m in greater danger of dying of boredom.
I can’t wander the streets by myself when Toby’s out at
meetings—which take up his days as well as his nights now.
There are Arabic women out in the streets but there’s always
been this understanding between Toby and I that I won’t do
anything foolish to endanger my life or wellbeing. So I can only
watch life go on outside the boarding house window.
Down in the narrow street below, young boys play marbles. In
the late afternoon, there are older Arab schoolboys playing
football. They like to call out what I can only imagine to be rude
remarks at any passing European man, including French soldiers.
There is a well at the end of the street and Arab women pass
by carrying petrol tins or earthen jugs. I have observed that a
donkey will carry two petrol cans strapped on its back.
Even food, which has the potential to keep life interesting,
becomes irritating. All Toby seems to come back with is flat
bread, goat’s cheese, figs and mulberry juice. To him, one doesn’t
need a varied diet to keep life from being dull.

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My only measurement of time becomes the Muslim call to

prayer, five times a day. From my window, looking up, I can see
the tiled minaret with its golden cupola.
Finally, a week later, we learn that the Communists are being
transferred to Abu Ghraib military prison, which will be their
home until they stand trial.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do now,” I say, when Toby
returns shortly after midnight. “And it sounds like the
interrogation stage is over.”
“I dunno,” says Toby, wearily, pulling off his sandals. He’s long
since abandoned Western footwear. “Everyone says the cells
there are dark, damp and narrow. In the past, other Communist
members have gone insane confined in them.”
I groan and stretch out on the bed.
Toby looks at me.
“I’m going insane here,” I say.
He looks around the narrow room, maybe not damp, but
certainly dark. He nods.
“OK, Felicity,” he says. “I get it. You’re a prisoner here too,
aren’t you?”
I nod, trying not to cry.
He curls up on the bed with me and just before he drifts off,
he says, “We’ll stay for the trial and then we’ll go back. I
promise.”
He’s asleep before I can even reply.

In the week leading up to the trial, Toby almost returns to

normal. It’s all out of his hands and he knows it, so we walk
through the tree-lined streets of Damascus, visit the Umayyad
Mosque and the tomb of Saladin, watch children play in a park,
drink coffee in the café run by the Christian family, and of
course, read all the newspapers.
The Daily Worker reports that Yusuf and the Communist Party
members are receiving the “right sort of ” books and newspapers,
according to what the authorities deem to be right, as well as light
to read them by. Fairly unsensational stuff.
The trial comes and is a major event in Baghdad as well as in
Damascus. The telegraph lines between the two cities must be
smoking with activity.

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Yusuf and nine other Party leaders are appearing before the
High Criminal Court and have each been assigned lawyers. On
the first day, one of the lawyers makes such an effective plea on
behalf of his client that he is immediately arrested for being a
Communist.
Toby groans as he reads this. No surprise, the other nine
lawyers do not show up in court the next day.
In any case, this gives Yusuf and his fellow Party leaders the
chance to speak freely and they do, The Daily Worker reports with
admiration.
After two days of this, they are charged with having “foreign
sources of income.”
Toby snorts as we sit and listen to this. Today, I am in a café
with about twenty men, listening to trial highlights on the radio.
“Relying on Germany is obviously acceptable, but relying on
Britain or Russia isn’t,” he says.
Most of the news reports are in Arabic so we return to our
room and read the rest of it in the German-language newspapers.
In any case, it is Yusuf who points out that no one outside of
Iraq is supporting them financially. I squeeze Toby’s hand and he
sees the concern.
“Don’t worry, Felicity,” he says. “They know we were there
but we made no financial contributions. And I don’t think it
would help their cause to mention us . . .”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the Communists or the
German prosecutors.
It is pointed out that producing newspapers and tracts is
expensive so they must have a source of money from
somewhere. Yusuf replies that they sell their newspapers and rely
on the goodwill of supporters.
In fact, as the days go on, that’s the whole nature of the trial.
Yusuf is accused of something. He either denies it or has a
reasonable explanation.
The German judge accuses the Communist Party of spreading
sedition and encouraging armed revolt. Yusuf replies that he has
never done or said anything against the Kaiser and he points out
that had he been encouraging an armed revolt, he would have
supplied his men with arms, something he never did.
But reasonableness does not win the trial and in the end, all
ten men are found guilty and sentenced to hang. Even the man

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who sheltered the Communists in his home when they were

arrested is sentenced to hang despite not being present at the
trial.
Baghdad’s response to it is subdued compared to that of
Damascus where it is the French, not the Germans, who are the
foreign advisors. The leading newspaper, not even a Socialist
publication, says on its front page that you can’t hang a man for
being a Communist.
“Their only hope now is a world outcry,” says Toby. We’re in
our room and true to his word, now that the trial is over, he’s
stuffing his few items of clothing into his knapsack. At least, at
first, I think that’s what it is, keeping a promise to me. But the
more he talks, the more I realize, we’re returning home to lead a
Canadian cry against injustice in Iraq.
It’s a fool’s errand, I think, watching him. I’m already packed.
We’ll hardly be past Cyprus before those men are hanged. But it’s
what drives him, the passion, the continual action toward that
end.
But from my perspective, we’re going home and that’s good
news. At home, people know me and I’m somebody. Here, the
fact that I’m female is three strikes against me. It disqualifies me
from any participation in these male-only societies. In Toronto,
I’ve probably sat through a thousand meetings, but I’m always
with Toby, not waiting in a dark room for him to return.
It is a short and uneventful ride by bus from Damascus to
Beirut and I’m longing to be aboard the ship, feeling the
Mediterranean breeze, hoping Toby will encounter no potential
disciples to Communism on the way home.
But just as we’re going up the gangplank, a French newspaper
headline catches Toby’s eye. The outcry in the Arab world alone
has been enough to have the death sentences commuted to penal
servitude for life.
Toby makes an abrupt turn and we’re back on the quay.
I’m feeling edgy. We were late anyway and there’s a horn blast
to let all know that this is the final call to board.
Toby has purchased the newspaper from one of the young
newsboys and is reading the high points of the article out loud to
me.

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“It doesn’t sound so bad,” I say. They will be serving their

sentence at Kut, which is a town about 180 kilometres outside of
Baghdad.
“I’m not so sure,” says Toby, looking up and staring in the
distance with unseeing eyes. “It’s a desert. It’s probably pretty
harsh. The guards are probably sadists . . .”
And I know at this point that we’re not getting on that ship.
By evening, we’re back in Damascus and Toby is out at a meeting.
I groan and hurl myself on the bed. I’m too tired of everything
to even cry.

Toby returns in high spirits.

“It’s all going to be OK,” he says, sitting down on my bed
where I’ve fallen asleep out of absolute boredom.
“But they’re still in prison,” I say, groggy.
“I found out that Kut is the Garden of Eden compared to
Abu Ghraib,” says Toby, pulling out our ship’s passage tickets
from his knapack, shrugging and tearing them up. “Doubt they’ll
give us a refund. Believe me, this is the best thing for Yusuf. He's
no longer in a lonely cell, but out and about with all the other
men.”
“How did you find all this out?” I ask.
“One of the men has a . . .”
“Let me guess, a cousin?”
“No, uncle actually. He’s a prison guard at Kut. It’s far more
relaxed than Abu Ghraib. The guards there are too annoyed that
they’re so far from the pleasures of Baghdad to care what the
men talk about. We all figure that with Yusuf and the other
Communists in prison, before long, Kut will be an institute of
higher learning for Socialist dialectics.” Toby laughs at the
thought.
I smile. I’m starting to wake up and I’m also hoping that this
means we’ll be heading back to Beirut sometime tomorrow.
“Furthermore,” Toby continues. “I think it will give them a
chance to rethink Party strategy. With time to spare, they can
analyze past failures and come up with strategies that will work
better next time.”
He yawns and moves off of my bed to his. This room, which
we checked into late last night, is in a real hotel in a more
luxurious part of Damascus and we each have a double bed.

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I sigh. I’m just starting to feel normal. I would love to go

downstairs to the hotel bar and sip wine from Galilee or beer
from Egypt.
I get up and use the bathroom. The best thing about staying in
a luxury hotel is you don’t have to go down the hall to use the
toilet.
Then I return to bed. Toby is already asleep. That’s how he is.
He pushes himself to his limit, comes home exhausted and is
asleep within minutes. Not me. I’m staring at the ceiling.
Finally, after an hour of telling myself to go to sleep, I give up
and tell myself to stay up all night for all I care. I can always sleep
on the bus. Then I fall asleep.
I awake to an empty room.
But Toby is soon back with a bag of oranges and all the
European-language newspapers. I grab one to see which ships are
departing from Beirut either today or tomorrow. Toby is peeling
an orange and reading a paper but then I see him freeze as he
turns a page. Wordlessly, he hands it to me and points to the
article.
Tax increase in sugar and tea leads to disturbances in Baghdad reads
the headline.
“What do they mean by disturbances?” I say.
“It’s the German euphemism for riots,” he says. “But look,
Felicity. Sugar and tea. Remember how Yusuf told us that the only
luxury of the poor man in Iraq is tea and sugar? It’s what he
drinks when he gets home from his 14-hour day. It’s all he has to
look forward to, his only consolation. Felicity, this could be it . . .”
I groan internally. Toby would never leave a potential
revolution behind.

Toby’s intuitions are correct.

By evening, the events in Baghdad are on all the news stations.
The lobby of our hotel has a television set on a European
broadcast and there are reports in German and French, so we
can pick up most of it.
Over a meal of stuffed grape leaves and a bottle of white
wine that we brought out into the lobby, we watch the familiar
Rashid Street in Baghdad, filled to capacity with marching
protestors. It’s hard to believe there isn’t a Communist leading

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them, the slogans they are calling out are so Socialist. The
German broadcaster translates some of them for us.
Apparently, the day’s march started small, at one of the city
gates. There were no placards or signs because those assembled
were the poor and illiterate workingmen who just wanted to
protest the sugar and tea tax increase.
But once the students got involved, it became more political.
They assembled in front of the School of Medicine, about
seventy of them, many with signs and headed for al-Muadhdham
Gate. There they began inciting the people to demonstrate,
shouting, “Down with the Government!” “Down with Foreign
Oppression!” “We are for a People's Revolution!”
As workers joined the students, they also began to shout,
“Long live the unity of the workers and the students!”
By the time they reached the brass founder’s market, one of
the students addressed them and stirred them up to even greater
passion. Next, they halted before the Headquarters of
Investigations, and shouted, “Provide Bread to the People!”
“Down with the Investigations!” “Send the Chief of
Investigations to the Gallows!” When they arrived at the next
Square, another student leapt to the roof of a coffeehouse and
made a speech that included pointing at the throng and crying
out, “We want a people's government representing these classes!”
After that the procession moved on and made for the Eastern
Gate, pausing in front of a petrol station to listen to another
inflammatory speech by another inspired student. After that they
shouted, “Long live the People's struggle!”
The tall blond male broadcaster is reporting the summary of
the day’s events with the tone of an adult discussing an errant
child. But at least the footage is clear and he is thorough in his
translations of the shouting Arabs.
The broadcast continues, showing the crowd rolling forward
and shouting, “Release the lions of Kut!”
Toby nods at this homage to the Communist leaders in prison,
although the news correspondent reports this with the sense that
it’s not going to happen.
“I think that time we spent with the imams really paid off,”
says Toby.
The footage goes back to earlier today when the people ended
up outside the government buildings demanding the death of the

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Prime Minister. The German Broadcasting Corporation news

anchor back in Berlin is a slim blonde woman and she concludes
with the interesting tidbit that the Iraqi Prime Minister resigned
and retired shortly thereafter.
“In other words, he fled for his life,” says Toby, as there is
subdued celebration in the hotel. I know if we were in a
coffeehouse in the Old City, there would be open cheering.

We are down early the next day for breakfast in the lobby and
more news.
Everyone in the hotel seems to be doing the same, wrapping
their eggs in pita bread and leaving the dining room to stand
around in the lobby while holding cups of coffee, all eyes on the
television.
The rioting continued into the night.
The crowds destroyed the German Information Service
Building using crowbars and battering rams before dowsing the
interior with oil and setting it ablaze. As well as typewriters and
filing cabinets, thousands of books, magazines, and files were
destroyed. A German-language newspaper office was also set
ablaze despite a nearby police station that was showering
demonstrators with automatic fire from their rooftop. The mob
then turned on the police station, setting it on fire and tearing
apart three policemen as they tried to make a run for it,
beheading one just for good measure.
The blond GBC correspondent in Baghdad looks a little more
shaken today.
“Baghdad is a battle zone,” he reports, from his hotel balcony.
(Yesterday he was down at street level.) “Students continue to
come in bus convoys from other towns and fieldworkers
continue to pour into the city . . .”
We see footage of police openly firing on crowds from the
roofs of buildings. The crowds retaliate by setting one of their
armoured cars on fire. The police then have to retreat across one
of the many bridges that span the Tigris.
Most in the crowds are armed only with heavy sticks, but they
are angry and that makes them terrifying.
There is a murmur among the people in the hotel lobby as we
see footage of the police taking positions on rooftops and in the
minaret of the al-Muradiyyah mosque.

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“This is live, Felicity,” says Toby, his face pale and serious. He
takes my hand.
I hadn’t realized that the newscaster had gotten us all up-to-
date and that we were now looking at a live broadcast.
I gasp as the police fire down on protesters. The number of
people is so enormous that I have a hard time picking out who is
hit. But as the firing continues, here and there, people drop.
But the crowd just keeps getting bigger and angrier.
And today there are way more signs. They’re in Arabic, so we
ask one of the waiters to translate some of them for us.
“Death to all Enemies,” he read. “Free Land for All.” He
glances at us before reading another one and moving on.
“Destruction to all Foreigners.”
I’m so glad we’re here and not there.
But despite the gunfire, protesters are pushing in from all
directions. The news cameras are on the roofs of buildings so we
see it all. They are pouring across the bridges. At the same time,
they are being fired upon. I see bodies falling into the Tigris and
floating away. Some get caught in an iron bridge. I’m so glad the
cameras do not zoom in any further but maintain only an
overview.
Armoured cars and machine guns continue to meet the
protestors.
I hear a gasp from someone in the lobby. And then we see
why. From one side street is coming a whole school of young
children, led by their teachers. Within minutes, they will be on the
front lines, facing armoured cars and machine guns.
We all wait, hardly breathing, because, of course, we can see
what the crowds can’t. But then the protestors of Baghdad realize
that there are children in the midst, their very own children in
some cases. And then the police realize it, too.
And in that moment, the police hesitate. They stop firing. And
it is just enough time for the people to move. The crowds push
forward and the policemen who can, flee, scattering in every
direction.
“They’ve won,” says Toby. His palm is sweating in mine. Then
he turns and hugs me with a passion I’ve never felt from him
before.
“The people have won!” he says. His arms are still around me
and in his embrace, I forget everything, Baghdad, Damascus,

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even Ottawa. And then he lets me go. “But what a gamble! I

don’t think I would have had the guts to do it.”

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194
 Chapter Twenty-Two

D
shoulders.
avid’s father was pale. His son’s words were shocking.
Almost unbelievable. But King Albert couldn’t deny that
an enormous burden had been lifted from his own

His son was ready to step forth and take his place in the world
of men, and not just the world of men, but the world of rulers.
There was no wavering in David’s tone. He spoke in
certainties. King Albert remembered the days—not in his own
lifetime, of course—when kings of England spoke in certainties.
It reminded him of the way the Kaiser spoke, but in this
scenario, David was, well, David, and the Kaiser was Goliath.
Could his son bring down Goliath with a single stone? He
certainly spoke with the confidence of a young David facing the
enemy of Israel, and there was something so compelling about
his determination to do what was right rather than what was
expedient.
Will the people appreciate what their Crown Prince is willing to do for
them? King Albert wondered. Then he sighed. It didn’t matter.
David stood before his God. There would be rewards here on

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earth for David and greater rewards in heaven. Albert wasn’t sure
he could say the same for himself.
“Your mother won’t like it,” he murmured.
“Mother doesn’t have a say in it,” said David, in a matter-of-
fact tone. It was true. She was a side point in all of this. Albert
had an awareness that for most of his reign, he had been making
major issues of minor issues and vice versa.
“When I am strong enough,” said David. “I will speak out on
behalf of all of the oppressed in the world. And Canada will aid
them in their struggle.”
King Albert almost smiled. It was the statement of a child, a
child who wants to right wrongs and put an end to injustice. But
didn’t Jesus say something about, let the little children come to
me? And something along the lines of unless you become like
one of these little ones, you will not even enter the kingdom of
heaven? King Albert exhaled. If Jesus took an interest in
temporal kingdoms, King Albert was certain he was watching the
Kingdom of Canada right now.
“Can the meek truly inherit the earth, though, David?” he
asked.
David didn’t waver in his answer.
“If you believe, yes. If you have faith the size of a mustard
seed you can say to a mountain, be cast into the sea.”
“The Kaiser moves his own mountains.”
“And that will be his downfall,” said David.
King Albert felt a chill run down his spine. And in that
moment, he understood. David believed. David had discovered a
power greater than the Kaiser, greater than the Americans. And
for that illuminating moment, the King felt sorry for them both.

David returned to the library, relieved.

The conversation he dreaded most was over and he had
discerned that his father, in his own quiet way, supported him.
In his spare time, David had been reading about the Socialist
revolution in Russia and the Socialist revolution in England. Of
the two, he preferred the English one. It had been bloodless and
though the monarchy hadn’t survived, it had not suffered the
cruel end of the Romanovs, held under house arrest before being
executed by Bolsheviks in a basement in Siberia.

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As far as he could tell, the main difference between the two

revolutions had been in the characters of the men who had led
them. Vladimer Lenin had insisted on the royal family being
executed. Edward Cornwall had led a people’s revolution that had
held onto their parliament and established safeguards against
social inequality.
Edward Cornwall. His name came up time and time again.
He was a source of fascination to both the Crown Prince and
to Peter. Together, they were trying to find out as much as they
could about him. Peter was scouring seedy bookstores and David
was scouring royal archives to try to understand the man who
had led the revolution. Rare book rooms of all the universities
had received requests from New Buckingham Palace to send
anything they had on Edward Cornwall. From a telegram he
received back from the head librarian at the University of
Toronto, David gathered that anything about Edward Cornwall
was a forbidden text only kept for its historical value and that the
university would rather its students sign out works from their
collection of Victoriana pornography than read anything by or
about Edward Cornwall.
It didn’t matter. David and Peter now spent their evenings
reading the forbidden speeches of Edward Cornwall, relating
passages to one another, eyes bright with passion at the way the
words jumped off the pages and filled the quiet New
Buckingham Palace library, words being spoken again after nearly
a hundred years. As drama students, both of them recognized the
oratorical quality of Cornwall.
“What has your king done for the poor?” asked Cornwall, the
first time he spoke. He had waved a sheet of paper at his
audience in Hyde Park. “I have here in my hand the sum total of
his achievements for the poor. When he was Prince of Wales, he
served on two Royal Commissions, the first to study housing
improvements for the impoverished, the second to provide care
for the aged. Served on a committee, mind you. And when he
travelled to India, he requested that the British overlords not
refer to the natives as ‘niggers.’ While I am grateful that our king
is not a bigot, I doubt very much it helps those same men. A
nigger by any other name still stinks to a British officer.”
He had gone on to say, “I do not doubt that our king’s heart
was moved by the plight of the homeless, the impoverished aged

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and the natives in India. Edward is said to be famously generous

with gifts for his friends. Would that he were as generous toward
his subjects.”
On another occasion, Edward Cornwall had informed his
attentive audience that, “If you want to drive King Edward into a
mad rage, show up at a levee wearing mixed uniforms. The man’s
devoted his entire life to pleasure, yet he has every uniform from
England all the way to Russia in his closet. He knows every medal
of honour from here to Japan, and yet has done nothing to merit
a single one, although the upper echelons of this civilized world
bestow all sorts of useless medals on one another so that they
can go to their glittering balls wearing the Order of this or the
Garter of that on their breasts, while good women and children
go to bed hungry and in rags. . . ”
“Have you ever seen the King eat?” Edward Cornwall had
asked them another time. “I have it on good authority that he
takes his breakfast in bed. It is a modest repast of coffee and
toast if he is to stay indoors. But if he is to go hunting, well! He
adds to that bacon, eggs, both chicken and fish. Then, a mere few
hours later, he strengthens himself with turtle soup. For lunch, he
devours a few more platefuls to tide him over until a tea of eggs,
rolls, shortbread and five kinds of cake. Then there is dinner. Ah,
dinner! The king’s ability to eat astounds all, even the Queen. At
least twelve courses are served at his dinners and the king eats a
plateful of each. Think of the number of children that could eat
well tonight on just the king’s dinner alone. Then, as if that isn’t
enough, it is said the king takes a whole roasted chicken to bed.”
The audience of his day had loved it.
“What we have is a pseudo science,” said Edward Cornwall,
when once invited to participate in an open-air debate with a
loyal monarchist who claimed that the king was a great promoter
of scientific achievement. “We see the role of science in our
society as a counter-revolutionary tool, used to make small
improvements to the lives of the poor that will offset Socialism,
but at the same time, make the rich even richer. Which, in effect,
just strengthens the position of the rich. It is no wonder that our
monarch supports science. So while the rich and the learned have
their science clubs, let the king think upon this. There are at least
fifty clubs devoted to Republicanism in this country. And I hope
there are even more in the colonies, for they of all people should

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certainly know that one does not need a king in order to have
good government.”
On only one occasion had King Edward replied to one of
Edward Cornwall’s diatribes against him. And even then, it was
indirectly. In a speech delivered with passion in Hyde Park and
joyfully recorded by the newspapers who preferred sensational
stories, Edward Cornwall had brought out a list of all the people
accompanying the king on his forthcoming trip abroad, and not
an official visit of one head of state to another, mind you, but a
simple pleasure jaunt. His entourage would be enough to fill half
a hotel.
King Edward was said to have replied to the comment the
next day at a dinner party when he dryly noted to his guests that
in his mother’s day, the monarch’s entourage would have filled the
entire hotel.
Occasionally, the attacks had gotten even nastier and more
personal. Edward Cornwall assured his listeners that although the
king monopolized the British papers and bullied them into not
printing all of his exploits, that the French papers had no such
scruples and for anyone willing to take a trip across the Channel
to read one, he would quickly learn that his sovereign’s trips to
Paris were entirely devoted to his pleasure and that in addition to
stuffing himself in the city’s finest restaurants, he also partook of
the city’s most notable beauties who gladly gave themselves to
him.
“Look at this,” said David, leaning forward. He held up the
book he was reading, a small paperback biography of Edward
Cornwall published in England that Peter had found in a box in a
second-hand bookstore on Queen Street. “It says here that
Cornwall spent his younger years in Germany. His mother was a
servant at Potsdam!”
“No way!” said Peter. “Potsdam as in the Kaiser’s palace?”
David nodded and stood.
“I’m going to telegram my uncle and ask that he send me
everything he can about Edward Cornwall.” David, who had
started walking, stopped. “No, that’s not good. He’ll be
suspicious and he won’t send me anything that might corrupt
me.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll send a telegram to the royal
archivist. He’ll assume I’ve already mentioned it to the Kaiser and
that the Kaiser referred me to him.”

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“Smart,” said Peter nodding, returning his eyes to a book from

the University of Toronto’s Rare Book room that included both
speeches and photos of Edward Cornwall speaking in Hyde Park.
When David returned, Peter said, “Listen to this. It’s his final
speech.” He began to read. “We compete for the attention of the
people. The daily newspapers fill our minds with the trivial, a
constant river of unending facts to make us feel like there is
change, that there is progress. Change for whom? Progress for
whom? For the comfortable readers already ensconced in homes
of middle-class sensibility? But who will dare walk the streets of
East London with me? Who will dare board the train with me to
go see the coal-mining communities? But I need you to! I need
you to see the real, great needs of the workingman and to appeal
to you to take a risk, yes, a real risk, for I ask you to risk your very
comfort. Do not fill your minds with the tales of the idle rich.
Ask not, how do they live? How do they dress? How do they eat?
Instead, turn your eyes to the bitter and desperate poor and ask,
how do they live? How do they dress? How do they eat? And
when you have satisfied yourself that I am correct, that
something must be done, then rise with me, rise with me now and
we will take to the streets and we will change this nation, starting
with the king and his kind, until every man, woman and child in
this land has a decent outfit on his or her back and a decent meal
on his or her plate.”
Peter looked up.
“That was the one. That was the one that did it,” he said.
David nodded. He had read about that day, that day when
Edward Cornwall had delivered the speech Peter had read to a
crowd of listeners in Hyde Park. But instead of marching with
him to London’s East End or to one of the many mining
communities, that speech had begun the march, the now famous
march of people that had grown in strength as they moved
through the streets of London like a wave, that had made its
forceful way to Buckingham Palace where King George, son of
Edward, had been hosting a luncheon for the Mayor of London
and other city notables, a force that had fallen upon the gates and
been too irresistible for the guards they met along the way, until it
had culminated in the very dining hall itself, with the King and all
his men fleeing for their very lives. And thus England had turned
from a monarchy to a workingman’s republic.

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An hour later, a footman came in with a telegram from

Germany saying that a copy of all the materials on Edward
Cornwall housed in the Potsdam archives would be sent to New
Buckingham Palace post haste.
David and Peter put away the books they were reading and
stood up.
“My mother’s out at a film opening,” said David. “My father
and I can order pizza for dinner. Want to stay?”
“As long as it’s not salad,” said Peter, grinning. “Count me in.”

When the materials arrived from the Imperial archivist in

Potsdam, David called Peter to come help him go through it all.
None of it was in book format, it was all loose paper and there
was a lot to go through.
There were many copies of letters. It turned out that Kaiser
Wilhelm II and Edward Cornwall had been so close in age that
they had formed a strong friendship and had written many letters
to one another. They were mostly bantering back and forth, the
talk of young men interested in the world, in military matters, in
the girls of Potsdam.
The library was silent as they read, the material absorbing.
Both men were gifted writers and the letters ranged from
amusing to soaring with the elevated ideas of youth.
“This . . . is . . . amazing,” said Peter, slowly “Really,” he said.
“You are not going to believe this . . .”
“What is it?” said David looking up.
“It’s the German military dossier on Cornwall and it says here
on the front, ‘compiled with the assistance of Kaiser Wilhelm
II.’”
“I guess they put it together after the revolution,” said David.
“It’s more than that . . .” said Peter, his eyes rapidly skimming
the document. “It tells everything. His whole life.”
“Really?” said David. One thing that had struck him about all
of their reading on Cornwall was how little of it was about the
man’s life. Biographies were more a compilation of his speeches.
“He was attacking the father who rejected him.”
“What do you mean, attacking the father who rejected him?”
“That’s what it says here,” said Peter. “It’s what Wilhelm II
said.” He leaned forward. “Listen to this. It says, ‘Only his closest

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friends know that Edward Cornwall is the son of Edward VII

and his first love, a Toronto orphan named Anna.’”
David’s eyes widened and Peter nodded.
“Basically, it says here that no one knew her last name. Duke
of Cornwall was one of the Prince of Wales’s many titles and she
took the name for her son. It says here, Anna lived in a small
home in London, purchased for her by the Prince, and those who
knew them both, jokingly called her the Princess of Wales. Of
course, it was a doomed love. The Prince of Wales was expected
to marry a European princess and when Alexandra, his future
wife, was introduced to him, he agreeably went along with his
family’s obvious intentions that he should marry the beautiful
Danish princess. The fact that he had a child already was
something he chose to conveniently forget.”
David sat still, speechless.
“No one knew how Anna felt about it or why she chose to
keep the Prince’s secret,” Peter continued, his eyes on the dossier.
“The only known certainty was that she wanted a royal
upbringing for her son even if it wasn’t in the English court. She
sold her house in London and took young Edward Cornwall to
Germany. It’s possible her mother or father was German.”
David nodded, now getting used to the idea. Queen Victoria’s
eldest son was a well-known womanizer.
“In Germany, she found a post as part of the kitchen staff at
Neues Palais—New Palace—Potsdam,” said Peter.
A relatively easy accomplishment, David knew, since of all the
royal houses in Europe, the German palaces had always been
over-inflated with staff.
Peter kept reading.
The bastard child of Edward VII had grown up in endless
corridors, a palace of two hundred rooms filled with marble,
silver and silk. The German Crown Princess was Queen
Victoria’s daughter, Vicky. So Edward Cornwall had lived under
the same roof as his royal aunt, although it was doubtful that she
knew he was her nephew.
“A lot of this is from the perspective of Wilhelm II,” said
Peter. “He talks about how Edward was only a year and a half
younger than him and how they became friends.”
The two boys played war games on the adjoining military
parade ground and Wilhelm II was one of the few people who

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knew that Edward Cornwall was his cousin. In fact, one of his
boyhood promises was that that they would invade England
together and that Edward Cornwall would be King of England
instead of the Godless Edward.
As they grew to manhood, Edward Cornwall stayed in
university while Wilhelm built an inner circle of military advisors.
When Edward’s mother died, he went back to England to accept
a teaching post at Oxford. At some point back in England, he
had become the champion of Socialism.
David reached for the intelligence report and read it more
carefully for himself.
It seemed that Edward Cornwall was everything that his father
wasn’t. He was a man of words and ideas and convictions. He
had many enemies and yet, not one of them had come forward
with slanderous reports about doxies or drink or debauchery. He
lived simply and surrounded by people, and from all accounts, he
had a steady habit of putting their needs ahead of his own. Even
on paper, one could still feel the devotion that those around him
felt towards him. David felt it himself. A longing, an aching for
the ideals he stood for and the embodiment of them in a single
man.
And he lived in extraordinary times, times that were in his
favour. The report included details about the revolution in
England. Miners and railway workers were striking and Edward’s
son, King George, had no sympathy for strikers, suggesting to his
Prime Minister that a law be passed against picketing.
Throughout the years leading up to the war, England had often
come to a standstill due to general strikes. Protesters had thrown
rocks at the windows of Windsor Castle and women were leaving
their homes to join the suffragettes marching in the streets.
But things really started to go against King George when the
Russian Revolution erupted. The Great War with Germany was
still raging and England had to come to the aid of her ally,
Russia, who was also in the middle of a revolt against the
monarchy. History summed it up by saying that the workers of
England rose up rather than lose even more men just to crush a
worker’s revolution in Russia. When England became a
republican state, they had immediately made peace with
Germany. The Germans considered themselves the winners of
the war and had put into practice a policy of dominating

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continental Europe, devouring the former British Empire and

crushing any Socialist leanings that rose in their midst.
But in England, it had been a bloodless revolution and that
was something Edward Cornwall considered his greatest
achievement, although he spoke very little about it afterwards.
Forces were already in place to lead the people to a Labour
government committed to correcting the inequalities they saw in
England. The revolution wasn’t a one-man effort, by anyone’s
evaluation, but everyone agreed that it wouldn’t have happened
without Edward Cornwall.
“Edward’s England will be remembered for being the time
when we began to make changes,” Edward Cornwall had said
only the day before. He could have just as well been talking about
himself instead of the king. “George’s England will be
remembered for when we finished making them. We are a
dissatisfied people—dissatisfied with starvation in East London,
with oppression in Dublin, with wealth in the hands of the few
and the lot of the workingman to not even his daily bread. We
are the generation of revolution. America had hers, France had
hers, now we will have ours. Will we continue to give our sweat
so that the aristocracy can hold onto her properties? Will we
continue to give our blood so that the king can hold onto
Ireland? Today our leaders offer us only one thing—a resistance
to change. They want a world where their sons can inherit all and
our sons can continue to be their slaves.”
Shortly after, Edward Cornwall, his wife and all but one of
their children had died in a house fire. Sparking wires in the early
days of electricity. David read the report right through to the end
and then stood up.
“This is the story we will tell Canada,” he said, the report still
in his hand. “And Edward Cornwall’s speeches will be heard
again.”

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Chapter Twenty-Three

I resign myself to a return to Baghdad.

We played only the slightest, if at all, role in the recent
events, but Toby has to go back to see if Yusuf is OK.
As it turns out, it really wasn’t the children who saved the day,
although they did save the hour. It was army. The army had been
ordered to fire on the people that day, but they didn’t. Instead,
they stood back and let events unfold. Now the government is in
the hands of the army. German nationals have fled or been
dismembered by the people. Literally dismembered The Arabs
don’t seem to think in terms of middle ground—like
imprisonment for former oppressors.
And all political prisoners have been released. So we take the
first Nairn bus heading east and are back in Baghdad two days
later.
We spend the first few days trying to find Yusuf, going around
to the different houses we met in. But on the third day, we find
Antony reading a newspaper in a coffeehouse on Rashid Street,
having somehow managed to survive both the Communist purge
and the Foreigners purge.

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“How on earth did you do it?” asks Toby, pulling a couple of

chairs over so we can join him at his table.
Personally, I feel terrified. I think the three of us are the only
Europeans left in the city except for the news people who aren’t
leaving their hotels. Even as we sit here, abandoned businesses
and banks are being looted.
Antony explains how after the Communist Party members
were rounded up, he decided to go straight into the heart of the
German world to hide, moving into the Majestic Hotel on Rashid
Street.
“One thing I noticed right away was how the Germans lived
in a completely different world than the average Arab,” he says.
It’s good to see him again, confident and carefree. “It was a world
of wide terraces and carpeted stairs and potted palm plants. They
had their own clubs and places where they wouldn’t let an Arab
anywhere near unless it was his job to clean the latrine.” Antony
leans forward, talkative, and I think he’s happy to see us again,
too. “There was this one place on the left bank, a bit of paradise,
a garden with lots of trees and a fountain and little tables and
lights and an orchestra. All the potatoes hung out there, so I did
too. All European music. Everyone sat around quaffing ginger
beer. I imagine the Arabs have turned it into rubble by now.”
“Then why weren’t you lynched when they all fled?”
“It’s simple. To the Arabs, an Arab is anyone who can speak
Arabic,” says Antony. He grins. “I speak Arabic, so I was fine.”
He grabs my hand for a moment and squeezes. “You should have
been here. They didn’t see it coming, the potatoes. They were out
on the Tigris, sitting in restaurant boats in their summer suits or
dining in their garden cafés under tamarisk trees, filling
themselves up with lamb and chicken and grilled pigeon. I did eat
well when I was with them, I do admit. Grape leaves stuffed with
saffron rice, tahini salad, bread and butter pudding, baklava, ten
kinds of fruit. Antony shakes his head. “All while the poor man
on the other bank lived on falafel and black tea.”
Then he takes us to a new Communist Party headquarters
where Yusuf and the other “lions of Kut” are laying low until
they know where they stand with the new military regime. It is an
enormous home by the Tigris, emptied of furniture, but
obviously once the home of a wealthy family.

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After hugs and tears, Toby and Yusuf sit down for a good
long talk. All the horrors of prison life are part of the past. It is
the future they are both thinking of.
“The military will want to do things their own way,” says
Yusuf. “They will not want the Communist Party interfering. But,
the good thing is, they may not interfere with the Communist
Party.”
Toby nods at this wisdom.
“The main thing is,” says Toby, “You needed the army to drive
out the Germans. You couldn’t have done it without them. So
this is the new reality.”
Yusuf nods.
“And the oil will stay in Iraq,” he says. “As long as the Arab
world stands together to defend it. But I regret to say, it probably
won’t benefit the Socialists in the West in their struggles.”
“That’s OK,” says Toby. “It is as it should be. The oil was
always yours to begin with. In a way, you’ve had your revolution.
Mabrook! Mazzeltov!”
And there is a feeling of celebration in the streets of Baghdad.
I think the looting is just part of that. It’s only fair that Toby
should stay and enjoy it with the comrades. I don’t begrudge him
this small victory. The less oil that the Kaiser can use for his navy
means a stronger Socialist England.
The Arab way to celebrate is to be in the streets. But we
remain indoors with our comrades, with only an occasional visit
to Rashid Street for food and bottled water. Toby doesn’t mind.
He and Yusuf talk for hours while sipping mint tea or Arabic
coffee, both of which are starting to make my stomach queasy.
Antony is made of different stuff—he is out in the streets,
enjoying the festive atmosphere and even returning with some
loot—a few Western-style men’s hats from a German department
store. For one brief and treacherous moment, I wish I were
Antony’s girlfriend. He seems like a lot of fun. But then I repent
and feel ashamed. Toby could have any girl he wanted. He has me
because of who I am. Or more accurately, because of who he is.
Without his commitment to Socialism in Canada, I fear he
wouldn’t want or need me.
A small printing press is brought to our dilapidated hideout by
some of the comrades. Toby and Yusuf have been working out a
strategy for living under the new military regime.

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“We must support them,” says Yusuf. “They are our only hope
for keeping out the Germans. But we must speak out and
continue to uphold the needs of the people.”
Toby agrees and with this in mind, they design and publish the
first post-revolution pamphlet. It thanks the army for
safeguarding the rights of the workers and calls on all Arabs to
protect Arab interests. It is not a radical pamphlet in any way, but
it will be risky just to go out in the streets and start distributing
Communist literature again.
But all the comrades are getting restless and the general
feeling is action, any action, is better than sitting around.
As usual, I will be left behind. At first, it is Toby who
(reluctantly, I think) says he will stay and keep me company. But
then, to my surprise, Antony announces he will stay with me.
He’s been out enough, he says.
I hate the way my heart speeds up at being alone with Antony.
It’s not just that he’s attractive, but I’ve never gotten over my
feeling that he could also be dangerous. Though at this point, I
have no idea who he would be betraying us to. The Germans
have fled. I doubt he has any association with the Iraqi military
elite. Maybe it’s just that he seems like such an adventurer, like a
mercenary for hire.
While the others head out with handfuls and pocketfuls of
pamphlets—I observe that Toby does not even glance back at
me—Antony moves a chair closer to me and settles in for a long
chinwag. The only furniture we have in this home is some
lightweight folding wooden chairs. And the only food we have is
a large mesh bag of oranges. Antony is holding one. I hope that
Toby remembers to bring me back a falafel or something more
substantial to eat.
“What’s the story with this place?” I ask, already nervous that
we’re alone.
Antony looks around as if seeing it for the first time.
“I think it belonged to an Arab family that supported the
Occupation and fled as soon as the uprising started. Naturally,
the Arabs looted it. Mind you, there may not have been too much
to loot. The Arab way is to have beautiful carpets, and then line
the walls with mattresses to sit on. In any case, it took our
comrades a few days to make it back from Kut and by the time
they moved in, the place was empty.”

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I look down at our chairs.

Antony laughs.
“I think these chairs came from some government building,
German Transport Office, or something. To be honest, it was all
a muddle. The Iraqis were supposed to be independent and yet,
everywhere you turned, it was the German-this or the German-
that.”
I nod.
“So . . . back to Canada for you two?” he asks, tilting his chair
back and starting to peel his orange.
“Soon, I guess,” I say.
“So . . . what’s the deal with you two?” Antony asks. He
doesn’t have to elaborate. Why is Toby with me? I can’t tell
Antony the real answer. I can’t tell him that it really isn’t about
me, it’s about who I am.
I shrug.
“We’re Socialists,” I say. “We’ve struggled together for years.”
“Yeah, but you don’t struggle,” says Antony, grinning. “You
sit.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of sitting,” I agree. But he’s right. I
accompany Toby, I don’t really do anything. It’s Toby who does
all the work. But I still like to think of us as Lenin and Nadya.
“Do you love him?” Antony asks. I think he’s just asking
because he’s the type of person who will do anything to keep
things from getting boring.
“Who doesn’t love Toby?” I say.
“Yeah,” Antony says, nodding and offering me a slice of
orange. I’m sick of oranges but I take it anyway. “I can see what
you mean.”
“If Communism is going to come to Canada,” I say, “It needs
Toby.”
“I noticed you didn’t say, men like Toby.”
“No, it needs Toby,” I say. Of this I’m certain.
“Life has a way of throwing curve balls.”
“Baseball is a stupid sport. Too American.”
Antony laughs.
“Canadians don’t have to hate everything American, you
know.”
“Toby would agree with you. He says that to hate something is
to give it more power than it deserves.”

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“He’s right. America is pretty self-absorbed. They insult

Canada by seeing it as a source of raw materials and a market for
their manufacturing.” He reaches into his leather satchel and pulls
something out. He hands it to me.
“European chocolates!” I say, examining the box. “Where on
earth did you get these?”
He shrugs.
“Looting. German Jews ran a department store here. I forget
what its real name was but everyone just called it Prix Fixe
because they didn’t barter. Anyway, the Jews are back in Germany
and all their fine china is being used in the mud hovels of the
Iraqi peasants.”
I open the box and eat a slightly melted chocolate, then offer
the box to Antony. He takes one. After dates and figs and
apricots, it’s almost heavenly to eat a box of chocolates. I hate
that Toby and I have never done anything like this—just
something indulgent in the midst of the Socialist struggle.
“I don’t understand why it couldn’t work,” I say. “Why can’t a
country have chocolates and dates?”
Antony laughs.
“Because they never did it like that. They always kept separate,
the potatoes. Instead of drinking coffee with the Arabs in their
coffeehouses, they brought their own coffee from Europe and
built their own European-style cafés that they didn’t let the Arabs
into. They built their own shops and boutiques instead of going
into the souk. And now their shops and boutiques have all been
looted and most of the goods will eventually make it to the souk
anyhow.”
I picture the souk suddenly filling up with all these German
imports.
“Posts and Telegraphs have fled, too,” Antony says. “It’s
hilarious. Some Arab took over and is sending out all sorts of
gibberish around the world—complete nonsense.” He shakes his
head in amusement. I laugh.
“There’s no more Baghdad Symphony Orchestra, either. They
were all German Jews. I saw an Arab walking around with a tuba
today and asked him where he got it. He told me to hurry if I
wanted to get an instrument. They were going fast.”
“I think the Arabs should start their own symphony,” I say.

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“I think the same thing,” Antony says. “It’s stupid to think

only the Europeans can do something like make acceptable
music. Personally, I like Arabic music.”
“Sound like you’re going to miss it here.”
He nods.
“But I’m not going back,” he says. “There’s still going to be a
struggle. The Communist Party can’t just pop its head up and say,
‘here we are!’ They’re going to have to lay low and if it all doesn’t
work out, they’re going have to carry on as if they’re fighting the
Germans.”
“You’re good at this, aren’t you?” I say.
He grins.
And then he shows me some of the stuff he’s been learning
while he’s been here. He pulls a notebook out of his knapsack
and we move to the floor so we can lean up against the wall.
Inside the notebook are all sorts of doodles.
“These just look like flowers or vines to the European,” he
explains. “The Quran forbids human representation so it’s the
typical Arabic ornamentation. But the Jews and Arabs here use it
to communicate with one another.”
He shows me how the Arabic lettering is embedded in a grape
vine.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say. “When did the Arabs start doing
this?”
“Actually, it was the Jewish Revolutionaries fighting against
Rome under Bar Kochba who came up with it first,” says Antony.
“Of course, they used Hebrew lettering. But we Semites have to
stick together.”
He teaches me some Arabic letters. Despite his energy, he has
an unhurried way about him, as if what’s he doing right now is
exactly where he wants to be. And I hate the way it makes me
feel—desperate for more of that kind of attention.
“You see,” he says, his hand on mine as he helps me do a
particularly difficult letter. “If you don’t learn Arabic here, you’ll
never make it. If you don’t learn Arabic, you’ll always be a
Franjy.”
“A Franjy?”
He nods.
“It’s the word for all Europeans, comes from the Crusader
days when most of the Crusaders were Frenchies. So France, or

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Frankistan, as they say, became the word for all foreign

countries.”
With Antony, I actually want to learn Arabic and stay here
with him in this relaxed war of his, where someone can struggle
against oppression and eat chocolates at the same time.
“It’s a bit dangerous to be here, don’t you think?” I say, hoping
for some kind of an assurance from Antony that the sooner I
leave here, the better. I’ve never felt this kind of disloyalty to
Toby and it’s ripping me up inside.
He laughs.
“That’s funny coming from you.”
At first, I think he’s found out who I am. But then I realize, he
just means being the girlfriend of a revolutionary.
“Not if you know Baghdad, though” he says, his hand still
guiding mine across the paper to spell out all sorts of words in
this beautiful and bewildering script. “This whole town is full of
obscure lanes and narrow passageways. The district behind Clock
Square is entirely lawless, rarely patrolled. Full of wanted men,
each of them perfectly willing to murder a man for turning him
in.”
As if sensing that his assurance might be a little severe for me,
he says, “But this is the perfect place for a European with just a
bit of money. You wake up to the call of the muezzin and a
breakfast of Arab bread served with fresh butter and sugared
apples before heading out to a coffeehouse and a game of
backgammon with the old guys who like to talk about the days
when their grandfathers almost overthrew the Germans in the
desert . . .”
“It sounds too easy,” I whisper. All my life, it has been about
Canada and Canada’s future and my place in it. And for the first
time in my life, I can picture myself somewhere else. Here.
“Some say this used to be the Garden of Eden,” says Antony.
Our hands have stopped writing but his is still on mine.
I look down at our hands, hating how much his words are
going straight to the loneliest part of my soul.
“Toby says the whole world was swept away by Noah’s flood,”
I say.
“And you believe everything he says.” It’s more of a comment
than a question. But he removes his hand from mine. The
mention of Toby has brought this conversation to an end.

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But as the night wears on and darkness falls on this big,

abandoned home, Antony and I end up lying back and looking
up at a chandelier that for some reason survived the looting and
is now glittering in the candlelight. And we talk about nothing to
do with Socialism and when I finally start to get tired, Antony
puts his arm around me and I fall asleep with my head on his
shoulder.

I will never know if Antony was just being nice or maybe, if

for some impossible reason, he wanted to get a bit closer and was
testing to see whether I’d stay loyal to Toby. Because Toby comes
in the next morning with astounding news that changes
everything.
“The Crown Prince of Canada has just announced that he’s a
Socialist,” says Toby. He is holding a German language
newspaper and he looks as if he is in shock. The story is on the
front page.
There is disbelief all around.
I stand, grabbing the paper from Toby and start reading. The
article is unbelievable.
Our anemic prince is hardly worth the attention of the world’s
press. It’s rumoured that he studies drama or art or something
like that in the capital’s university.
“What will happen?” asks someone. For the moment, all the
recent events in Iraq are of secondary importance.
“The King will have to choose someone else to take his
place,” says Toby.
“There isn’t anyone else,” I say. Since coming to Canada, the
kings and queens have done a poor job of providing heirs. There
are no close cousins to step in and take the Crown Prince’s place
in line.
Toby glances at me.
This is so unexpected. What should we do? His eyes tell me to
keep quiet. It is for the Concerned Comrades to decide.
“The Kaiser will crush Canada,” says Yusuf suddenly.
He’s right. The Kaiser will not allow a Socialist Crown Prince.
“We have to support him, then,” says Toby. The shock has
passed. He is back to being himself, man of action. “We have to
go home, take to the streets and show him we’ll stand behind him
all the way.”

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So this is it.
It’s too much all at once. My legs feel weak and I just want to
curl up and die somewhere. But Toby is grabbing my hand and
heading out the door, as if it’s just another challenge. As if this
doesn’t change everything.
And as if hurrying at this moment will make a difference. It is
not just a quick bus ride back to Canada.
Believe in Allah. Follow his direction. He will give you your leader.
The words of a Bedouin sheik in the Iraqi desert come back
to me.
And now I know. Concerned Citizens or not, Toby will
support the best man to bring Socialism to Canada.

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D avid inhaled deeply.

The inevitable telegram had arrived. Peter had been
by his side while he read it in the New Buckingham
Palace office that had formerly been used by King Albert.
There was no rambling in this telegram. The Kaiser brusquely
assured him that he would deal with him as soon as he was done
with England. Until then, he suggested that the Crown Prince
occupy himself with something more fitting than politics. The
Kaiser suggested fishing or sailing. Instead of the familiar “Your
Uncle,” the telegram ended with his full title of Kaiser Frederick
IV, King of Prussia.
“So,” David said, feeling almost euphoric. There was
something so refreshing, so pure, about making the right decision
and accepting any subsequent consequences. He felt no fear, only
a certainty that God approved and that every promise to uphold
righteousness had now descended upon Canada from the throne
room in heaven itself. “That’s that,” he said to Peter. He walked
across the room and put the telegram into a folder marked
“Kaiser” and put the folder into the K drawer of a filing cabinet.

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“Now we won’t think of it anymore,” he said turning back.

“We have more important things to do.”

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T hree weeks later, we walk down the gangplank, back on

Canadian ground.
Everywhere, we see the red flag of revolution.
Evidently, they didn’t need the ones under Toby’s bed.
Newsboys are at the end of gangplanks selling newspapers to
disembarking travellers eager for news. One particular boy
holding up a newspaper catches my eye. The headline of The
Globe says, Days of Edward Cornwall Come to Canada.

We are back in Toby’s room. The guildies are all here, crowded
into his room, eager to share everything we missed.
The Crown Prince, thanks to all his drama, is a magnificent
orator. The press loves him. He’s pale and thin, like the hungriest
of his subjects, and talks of crushing all who oppose the
sovereignty of Canada.
“But it’s all talk!” I say. “He can’t defend Canada against the
Americans and the Germans!”
“But that’s the whole point,” says Toby. “He’s talking and the
people are listening.”

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“They can’t get enough of him,” agrees Micah. “Canada isn’t

apathetic anymore. The nation was practically in ecstasy when he
tore up the agreement his father made with the Kaiser. I’ve never
seen anything like it. He was magnificent.”
Even I have to admit that Canada is a changed nation. It’s
electric. You can feel it in the air. The Crown Prince seems to be
the man the nation has longed for—lean, and intense. A Hamlet
whose father is still alive. The poor love him because he talks
about a redistribution of Canada’s wealth. The rich are terrified.
They want to flee but know that their assets, particularly their
vast land holdings, will all be seized by the crown if they do.
While all around me, there is euphoria, I feel an emotion I’ve
never experienced before, a complete emptiness. There is no
longer any purpose for my existence.
You see, The Globe’s headline was wrong. It should have read,
the Days of Edward Cornwall are Over. It is George’s descendants
who will continue to rule.
My mother and I are the only living descendants of Edward
Cornwall.
When England fell to Socialism, a whole bunch of laws were
passed aimed at reducing the power of the wealthy, including
passing one that said a man’s eldest child was always his heir,
whether it was a boy or a girl, legitimate or illegitimate. They
didn’t realize it, but by doing so, they made George’s reign illegal.
Only family and closest friends knew who Edward Cornwall
really was, King Edward VII’s eldest son. Although England no
longer had a King at the time the law was passed, the law still
stands and was accepted in Canada.
The Concerned Comrades knew that if there was ever a time
when Canada teetered on the edge of embracing Socialism, they
could present the one legitimate heir to the throne, the one who
would uphold the legacy of Edward Cornwall.
At the end of all this, Toby was supposed to present the
descendant of Edward Cornwall to Canada as their true Queen.
Not that I was planning on putting on robes and diamonds and
riding around in a golden carriage pulled by four white horses. It
was supposed to be for the cause of Socialism. And there was
always this understanding, unspoken, that Toby would be by my
side, the Prince Consort of Socialism.
And I am bitter not just for myself, but for Toby as well.

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 Chapter Twenty-Five

This is Toby’s victory! He’s worked years for this! The only
reason the Crown Prince could persuade the people so easily is
because Toby, and those like him, have prepared the way.
And Toby will be left out of this new world order.
Actors, artists and authors surround the Prince. Plays,
painting, and poems now all support the Prince and his gentle
revolution. They’re all winning the hearts of the people.
Entertainment. It’s the one thing Toby never considered. He
always spoke to people’s minds, persuaded them with the
righteousness of his cause. Now the artists are persuading them
with emotion.
And Toby isn’t even upset. He says it’s Socialism’s moment.
And it only takes a moment for everything to change.
The guildies are heading out. Everyone seems to be in the
streets these days. I hang back. I just want to sleep and not wake
up. Toby is right in the middle of the group but then he turns
back and sees me, still on his bed.
“Catch up with you guys!” he calls out. They hardly hear him.
He comes and joins me on the bed, holding my hand. He
knows. I know he does.
“Felicity, try to see it for what it is!” He squeezes my hand.
“It’s come upon us! Everything we dreamed of!”
My dreams were a bit different.
“It’s not his rightful throne,” I say, knowing how I must sound
to Toby.
“It’s a non-issue at this point,” says Toby. “The King has
abdicated in favour of the Crown Prince and the Crown Prince is
renouncing his position. He’ll be the first Prime Minister of the
Socialist Republic of Canada.”
“How did that come about?” I demand. “The Socialist
Republic of Canada? Did anyone vote on it?”
Toby smiles. “He announced it and everyone’s going along
with it.”
“Then he’s still talking like a king’s son!”
“You see the irony. I see the irony. But it’s happening! That’s
the important thing! Don’t you see, Felicity?” He stands up.
I do, but I don’t want to admit it and Toby is forced to sit
down again.
“But why? Why should you stand by the great poet Prince?”
“Because the Party stands behind him,” says Toby simply.

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 Storm & Stress

“You are the Party,” I say.

Toby shakes his head.
“The Party exists to serve the people. Personal ambition has
no place in it. Power corrupts the ideals of Socialism. That was
the lesson of Russia. We built in safeguards to keep anyone from
doing anything but serve the Party. I modeled it after the
teachings of Jesus. The greatest among you must be the greatest
servant,” he says.
I shake my head in disgust.
Toby moves closer, putting his arm around me.
“Besides, the Crown Prince has the support of the Army
generals. They never wanted to fight for the Kaiser and they
didn’t want to participate in an invasion against England.” He
squeezes my hand again. “That’s always been a weakness. I didn’t
want to discourage people, but I knew a revolution could never
take place without the support of the army.”
I nod. It’s all old news to me. Just like in Iraq, the Russian
Revolution didn’t occur until the army sided with the proletariat.
The police of St. Petersburg were sent out to put down the
hungry, cold rioting workers. The army, in one of those moments
of history, took sides with the people and rather than join the
police in firing on the strikers, fired on the police instead. History
now remembers it as the February Revolution.
“You have to be a part of it.” Toby stands and pulls me up.
“It’s one of those things that only happens once a century, if
that. Everyone is out there.” He practically drags me outside into
the bright autumn afternoon.
He’s right. These days, the streets of Toronto are filled with
people. The cars and the streetcars have just come to a standstill
in the middle of it all. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in
Iraq. It’s not just the poor. Workers from every industry are
marching under guild banners. Peasant farmers have arrived in
the city to carry placards and let the new regime know how it can
serve them. And mixing with them all are students, junior clerks,
women pushing prams . . .
“They’ve become political,” says Toby to me. He’s surveying
the whole scene with a beaming smile. “They’ve finally gotten out
of the rut of just surviving and now they realize they can make
demands. They can change things. C’mon! Let’s walk!”

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We join the crowds—Toby, who could have changed the

world, and me, descendant of a great man. Now we’re just
citizens along with everyone else. If Toby’s dreams come true,
we’ll soon live in a country without privilege and everyone will be
comrades.
“And if the Americans invade?” I look up at him. “What
then?”
“Presuming they win?” He looks down at me.
“Of course presuming they win!”
“Then we start over,” he says, unperturbed. “We plan,
organize and work for revolution. No matter how long it takes.
Russia had to do it in 1905. We’ll keep fighting against any system
that is an impediment to Socialism.”
That’s Toby. I doubt the Drama Prince is a true Revolutionary.
While the Prince holds onto power, Toby will continue to move
every boulder from his path and the Prince may never know
about this knight who cleared the way for him.
Toby pulls me close and grins. Like this is our victory. But it
isn’t.
Some cheerful blokes are knocking over a yellow German-
style telephone booth. I mean, I’ve never liked the
Germanization of our culture—hated it, in fact. But those lads
now standing on the toppled telephone booth are not a part of
us. They’re just ordinary Canadians on a holiday from being law-
abiding and well behaved. It’s not political . . .
And yet, Toby says everything is political.
I glance up at him. We’re still holding hands. For now. But I
think we were just political too.

221
 Storm & Stress

222
 Epilogue

Five years later

T he Second Great War, as it was being called now, was

drawing to a close.
Frederick ran a weary hand across his forward. He was
alone in the ballroom of Stadtschloss. It had long since been
converted into a War Room with a gallery of maps and an
enormous table in the centre where war strategies had been
planned out, often using the toy soldiers of the young princes.
His people had never seen him like this, broken, uncertain.
From what his generals told him, out in the streets of Berlin, his
people were in the middle of a civil war—republicans versus
monarchists. And it was a similar story in all the other German
cities. The republican elements were calling for his abdication.
After four years of war, they were sick of suffering deprivation.
His initial conquests had been successful. His forces had
moved through France like a greyhound across a field.
The English coast had fallen to the German Imperial Navy,
and for over a year, the Germans had held Bournemouth,

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 Storm & Stress

Portsmouth, Eastbourne, Hastings, Dover, Margate and

Southend-on-Sea.
North Africa had fallen with a satisfying thud, adding to the
Kaiser’s holdings in the Dark Continent.
But in the second year of occupation, the British had
retaliated with a vicious brutality that had taken the occupiers by
surprise, the Germans having been lulled into a sense of security
by the seemingly docile residents of the coastal towns. It had
been a ruse. Their rage was unleashed against their occupiers as
soon as the Industrial North had organized and arisen with iron
in their hands and fire in their bellies. One German private who
had survived the retaliation said it was like the rebirth of the
ancient Celts.
At first, North America had stayed out of the war, although
there had been incidents. The Atlantic Ocean had become a pond
for the Imperial German Navy and although the Canadian Navy
had never moved beyond her territorial waters, she had had some
occasional skirmishes when German U-boats came too close.
But Canada might not have been able to remain neutral if the
Admiral of the Kaiser’s fleet hadn’t gotten arrogant. The
Americans didn’t appreciate German dominance in the Atlantic
and had begun to patrol waters far beyond her territorial limits.
The Admiral had given the order to fire on any ship that
threatened the Imperial Navy. The Americans had responded in
kind and had even mobilized their standing army to assist the
English, even though they detested their Socialist cousins.
But the Kaiser’s real downfall had been Russia. Moscow and
Leningrad had beckoned to him, like they had to all European
rulers looking for more living space, and his Eastern Army had
been ordered into the territory of the great slumbering bear. It
was a gamble that the Kaiser expected to win. The Russians had
been keeping a wary eye on events in Europe with typical Slavic
indifference.
When things turned against him in England, the Kaiser knew
he needed a victory for the sake of German morale.
Initially, he had kept his eastern border deliberately
immobilized to throw off the Russians, hoping to catch them
unawares at some point. With his troops fleeing England by any
boat—small or big—that was available, the Kaiser had taken his
remaining forces and practically hurled them toward Russia.

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The army had marched in spring, hoping to win an easy

victory before winter set in.
They hadn’t and it did.
Now there was nothing left. And today, mothers were
standing outside of Stadtschloss holding up hungry children and
demanding that he do something about it.
For one moment, the Kaiser thought about Nicholas II, last
Tsar of Russia, who had allowed his Imperial guards to fire upon
the same sort of people when they had marched on the Winter
Palace in St. Petersburg back in 1905. For a fraction of a
moment, the Kaiser was tempted to do the same.
And then he thought of his young cousin in Canada, an
insignificant nation of some thirty million souls, who were not
marching on New Buckingham Palace, but were instead, still in
their first love for their Socialist King. Even the ex-King Albert
had received a measure of public affection for his unrelenting
goal of bringing a kitchen garden to every Canadian’s backyard.
And the Kaiser still owned a hunting lodge in Canada,
although, it had been years since he had visited it. In fact, he had
only visited it once, but it was still there, in the wilderness,
waiting . . . Maybe he could abdicate, leave the throne to his son,
Wilhelm, and start a new life in Canada . . .
But there was no chance that they would accept his son in his
place. The Crown Prince of Germany had been given several
regiments to lead and in every campaign he had engaged in, his
losses had been greater than his gains. One person said you
would rather be in the French army than be in the Crown
Prince’s regiment.
And the truth was, living under King David would be
insufferable. He was so loved by his people that they had refused
to allow him to abdicate. His lack of progeny suggested that the
royal family would not continue past him, but for now, he was as
much their hero as the King David of old. And when the war
had started, the German Kaiser had sent a telegram to his young
cousin announcing that he expected Canadian naval support in
his battle to regain supremacy for the monarchs of the world.
The little twerp had sent back a message, a single scripture from
the Proverbs of Solomon that read, “The horse is made ready for
the day of battle, but victory rests with Yahweh.”

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At the time, it had been ambiguous. Which side did David

think Yahweh would grant victory to?
But now it was clear. Even then, David had not believed that
having the most magnificent navy and land army in the entire
world was enough.
No, the Kaiser would not suffer the humiliation of an exile in
Canada.
His greatest grief in this whole war had been the effect that it
had had on Effie. The nation loved her all the more for being the
nation’s Mother in its time of grief. On many occasions, she had
worked eighteen-hour days visiting wounded soldiers and
organizing drives to collect comforts for the troops. In any spare
time she had, she was knitting socks for the troops or blankets
for needy widows.
But now the war had drained her and she was a grey-haired
woman. She, too, had paid the ultimate price. Not in the sacrifice
of their sons, thank God, because the five younger ones weren’t
old enough to command a battalion, but in her own health. The
Kaiserin had exerted herself to such an extent that she had
suffered a minor heart attack and the court physician had assured
the Kaiser that the next one would not be minor.
The thought of losing Effie was almost as bad as the thought
of losing Germany. Maybe worse. Not because she inspired him
or caused his feelings to soar, but because, she believed in him,
believed in them, and never questioned their God-given right to
rule.
By contrast, Canada’s Queen Donna had abandoned her
adopted country as soon as her husband had abdicated his
throne. Donna was now married to a film producer in California
who had built her a brand new limestone palace in the foothills
of Los Angeles. At least she didn’t have to share it with the
Socialist rabble. New Buckingham Palace had been converted
into an apartment for homeless families. David and his father
remained there in one of the apartments. A contemptuous family.
For one moment, the Kaiser had the satisfaction of having taken
the moral high ground. And then he came back down to the
reality of his current situation and an awareness of distant
voices—shouts coming from right outside of Statschloss.
His beloved Admiral had suffered a heart attack in the first
months of the war and now his current Admiral of the German

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Imperial Navy came into the enormous, echoing room, hurrying

with news. He wasn’t a bad sort, but the Kaiser found he couldn’t
talk to his army or navy anymore. Early on in the war, they had
taken charge, treating him as a figurehead rather than a true
leader. It had been a mutiny of sorts that the Kaiser had been
helpless to oppose. He had found himself quite alone in the war
and that was one of the many reasons why Effie’s poor health
was so alarming. She had become the only person who had truly
remained his. Even his sons were more likely to quote a general
these days than to listen to him.
“Sir, it is imperative that you leave right now,” said the
Admiral. No deference, the Kaiser noted. “The palace is in
danger of being stormed and unless you want them rioting in the
corridors we must take you from here immediately.”
“But the Kaiserin is visiting a hospital . . .” For one weary
moment, Frederick couldn’t remember the name of Berlin’s
biggest hospital.
“The Kaiserin is not in danger,” said his Admiral, already
turning, with the expectation that Frederick would follow. “A car
has been arranged for you and right now, the only country willing
to host you is Holland. Please follow me, sir,” he said, glancing
back slightly to observe that the Kaiser hadn’t moved.
“I most certainly will not abdicate,” said Frederick, while at
the same time, knowing deep in his being, he would. He was
neither loved, respected nor feared. He had lost his people.
His Admiral knew it too.
“Please, sir,” he said. “We can have you at the border by
nightfall, but you have to leave right now.”
Somewhere, Frederick heard the sound of breaking glass.
“Leave without Effie?” he said, following the man.
“The Kaiserin is in no danger,” the man repeated.
The Kaiser understood. The people still loved Effie. She
would not be blamed for this war.
“My boys?”
“All safe,” the man said, hurrying as the sound of breaking
glass intensified.
The Admiral could have been lying just to get the Kaiser out
of Stadtschloss. It didn’t matter at this point. For once in his life,
he was in the hands of other people, being ordered rather than
giving the orders.

227
 Storm & Stress

They exited through a servant’s entrance and Frederick noted

that the white car he was climbing into had had the Hohenzollern
emblem scrapped off of it, leaving an abrasive-looking patch of
exposed metal.
No luggage. No entourage.
Even the Admiral who had accompanied him to this point
wasn’t joining him, but was already turning back into the palace.
He had a driver and his personal secretary.
“Effie?” he said, once again.
“She is fine,” said his personal secretary, who had been with
him for twenty years and could be trusted. “She will be safe. Your
personal guard will repel the intruders and she will return here.
She can pack your belongings.”
Pack your belongings. As if they were just an ordinary
German couple who could fit a lifetime into two suitcases.
Frederick had accumulated thousands of lifetimes in
Stadtschloss. Would Effie even know what to pack and what to
leave to the looters?
No, not the looters. The Germans were good people. To the
museum. To the museum that would be established once he and
his family had vacated the palace. He hated the thought, but he
could see it already. Stadtschloss would be the museum dedicated
to the memory of the Hohenzollern dynasty. Troops of young
students would pass through and look in his family’s private
rooms and listen to the tour guide who would somehow manage
to make it all seem dull and insignificant.
Grey-haired gentlewomen would pass through and say, “I
remember the days when the Kaiser ruled Germany. . .” before
returning to the tearoom and a plate of apple strudel.
The car was already pulling away. There was time for one last
look and then the Kaiser had to duck his head not to be seen by
the hordes. His face was in his hands. It was over. He left
Stadtschloss to the school children and the old ladies.

The End

228
Other novels by Jennifer L Armstrong

The society for the betterment of mankind

Revolution in C Minor
Pink gin
Somewhere between Longview and Miami
Last king of Damascus
The Unlikely Association of Meg and Harry
Death Among the Dinosaurs
Prophet
A Good Man
Among the Sons of Seth
Sami’s Special Blend
Three Peaks
Spying on Gran

The Kent family adventures

The Treasure of Tadmor

The Strange sketch of Sutton
The Hunt for the cave of Moravia
The Search for the sword of Goliath
The Buried gold of Shechem
The Cache of Baghdad
The Walls of Jerusalem
The Missionary’s Diary

Non-fiction by Jennifer L. Armstrong

Dreaming in Arabic (A non-fiction narrative)

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