So this is it, thinks Yosef to himself. At least according
to the genealogist he’d hired. Somewhere near here his namesake, Yosef Sassun
died. He was not sure how a Persian Jew
had found his way into the Canadian lines at Vimy Ridge, but he’d already
discovered a small headstone in a nearby Arras church yard inscribed “Y.
Sassoon d. 1917” to prove that he was buried here in France. Well parts of him,
anyway. Accounts from the battle, he was told, apparently said that only
Sassoon’s legs were found and interred. A 21-cm Mörser shell had dropped on his
head.
Poor dude.
Now, Yosef walks the restored trenches. He is learning so much about his family’s
past, once thought lost for good when his family fled Iran 40 years ago. For
starters he had always been Yosef Sassun III, but with newly discovered Sassoon
’17, he must be at least the fourth son to bear the name.
Newly minted Yosef Sassun IV smiles. He feels a pull which
he can’t understand. A closeness to this place where his great-great
grandfather apparently fell. Such death and horror must under lie these plush
sodded fields.
Sweating, Yosef IV slumps as a darkness sweeps the field like
a huge bird racing past. What is more is that he found himself suddenly not against
a stone wall but wet earth, and not gazing down the long neat granite trench
but into a damp, muddy cell, where a man in the tattered army uniform is taking
a shave in a small mirror.
“Who are you? The new messenger? And out of uniform by god!”
the man barked noticing Yosef in the entryway.
“Yosef Sassun.” He stammered, “Must’ve taken a wrong turn.
I’m just looking for my wife.”
“Funny man. Sassoon? Arab?” He tossed the razor into a brodie
helmet full of soapy water. “Well, muzzy, you picked a fine day to show up.
About to go over the top.”
“Huh?” Yosef looks around wildly. A battle is raging. The
field was no longer grassy beyond the trench
but scarred with craters , dirt
and debris and billowing black smoke. He cleans glasses but to no avail. It is
all still there.
“Mable? You there?” he calls out stupidly, getting the attention
of only nearby soldiers with kid’s faces. They lined the walls, some crying,
most resolute. The officer had meanwhile dumped the helmet and re-donned his
jacket. He now adjusts his tie and raises a short sword. A terror leaps up in
Yosef’s chest.
“Steady, men” the officer cautions, and then suddenly
swishes blade and screams “God and Queen!” And all clamber up and out and over
the side dragging Yosef along in shame and confusion as well as odd and sudden sense
of duty.
But he stumbles no more than 10 or 12 meters wondering what
he is to do armed only with a smartphone and a fanny pack full of Pepperidge
Farm fishes when he becomes keenly aware that both the darkness was again
sweeping across the field and also that at an ordnance is exploding in his
face.
He found himself lying in the grass near the sterile stone
trench one again. Mable looked down on him in a panic.
“What happened, Yo-yo!?” she pleads blood splattered across
her face.
“It was the strangest vison,” he mumbles placidly. Grinning.
“Where are your legs!?”
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