A Stranger Among Us
Her name was Iris. She was German, a young German girl with a passion for travelling. She wanted to see as much of the world as she could, and she was determined to do it her way. It was the only way she could afford, and she felt she was capable of looking after herself. Looking at her you just wouldn't think so. She was slender with long straight blonde hair, and a sweet attractive face. She had just sufficient English to get by.Our family was young then. We had two boys and a girl sandwiched between, all teens. We used to go to all manner of places together. Mostly in the out-of-doors, hiking, picknicking, canoeing, clambering up hillsides and, when the occasion permitted, mountains. We would pick berries in season in nearby Gatineau Park; wild strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and blackberries. We would eat some, and have an evening of jam-making when the day was done. On this occasion, though, we had gone to the Sparks Street Mall, then stopped by the C.D. Howe Building at 24 Sparks Street, which was where my husband was working at the time. We wanted to go through the shopping concourse (underground) to pick up some specialty coffee.
Once there, we had separated, each of us going separate ways to satisfy separate curiosities. I was surprised by the quiet approach of a young girl with a small pack on her back, sandals on her feet. She asked if I could spare some change for yoghurt. I gave her some money then turned back to my pursuits. Soon she approached me again, asking where I thought she could get some yoghurt. Then we talked and I ascertained that she was a traveller, had nowhere really to stay. With us, I told her, you can stay with us. Oh, she said, I have to get my backpack. Where is it? By this time my husband had joined us, then our children. We set out with the girl to get her backpack.
There is a small picturesque island in the Ottawa River (in fact there are many islands in the Ottawa River) named Victoria Island. On the island was the wreck of an old building. It had been expensively refurbished and was to be used as a social gathering spot for local native Indians. This happened so long ago that I don't recall whether the building was pre- or post-renovation, because not long after renovation it was burnt out and smashed up by the same people for whom it was meant as a refuge, as a protest. Well, the girl had to crawl under a wrecked wall and make her way carefully to a damp cellar-like location to retrieve her back-pack. I was aghast at the thought of her having slept there for days. It was all right, she said, it wasn't that bad at all. And, she showed me, she had protection, a knife concealed at the back of her jeans waist.
When we arrived home, we urged her to make herself comfortable. She had a shower, and afterward spread herself, now in a long skirt, out on the lawn in front of the house in the sun to dry her long hair. What did our children think of this stranger? I hardly know, trying to recall. They accepted her, they were matter-of-fact about her being with us. I believe she was vegetarian so we adjusted our meals accordingly. That first night as we slept upstairs in our two-story house, and she slept downstairs in our finished basement in a bed made up for her on bedlinens on a leather sofa, I woke up thinking of that knife. My mind, my mind thought: we are Jewish, she is German. What if. What if she took that knife and went quietly under darkness to where the children were sleeping....
I think she stayed several days with us. She was very quiet. We talked, but not an awful lot. She was there, wraithlike and pure, a lovely young woman. Perhaps 18? What parents could let their child wander around the world like that without worrying endlessly I wondered. But Iris had her own mind, and despite our offers for her to stay, she decided to set out for Montreal. She would do as she always did, seek rides with strangers by the side of the highway. My remonstrances were futile, and according to her rule of Iris's law, groundless. We dropped her off at the conjunction to the highway leading to Montreal and gave her $20. She said she would call.
And she did, several weeks later. The telephone rang and a voice at the other end announced: "Here is Iris". Where, Iris, where are you? Why right downtown in Ottawa. Sit tight, Iris, we'll pick you up. So she was retrieved, and spent another few days with us before deciding she had to make her way elsewhere. Once again, the drop-off, another $20, and a promise to call. Call she did not. That was the end of Iris.
Until, perhaps a year later, we received a letter. From Germany. Iris had returned home.
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, May 31, 2005
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