Whisper on the Wind (13 page)

“No,” he said at last. “I was simply listening. Tell me, who is playing?”

“Isabelle Lassone.”

“Ah, the owner of this villa. I have yet to meet her, if I am to meet her at all. She plays well. Do you know if she plays Mozart?”

“Isa is very accomplished. I’m sure she can play a great many pieces.”

“I should like to meet her, I think. And you as well,
Fräulein
 . . . ?”

“Frau,”
she corrected automatically. “Mrs. Genevieve Kirkland.”

“Ah, yes, young Jonah’s mother. You have a healthy son, Frau Kirkland.”

She looked at him, finding his observation odd.

He must have guessed what she was thinking. “I mean only that you should be proud of him. He is young yet, but he will have a good future ahead of him. He’s strong and smart and quick-witted. The future will be run by such as him.”

“Yes, I am proud of him, and I look forward to his future in a free Belgium.”

For a moment she wished she’d choked back her words, and just as instantly she prayed a prayer of forgiveness. How true that the tongue was untamable! Insulting a German soldier—let alone an officer—was punishable by fine or imprisonment. How many placards had been posted around the city to remind her of that?

Suddenly the Major laughed. He possessed straight, even, white teeth and he looked far younger with a broad smile on his handsome Aryan face. If no offense was taken, perhaps she could remove herself from his sight and he’d forget she existed. Forget that they shared a roof. Forget that he was the conquering Major and she but a minor flea in the way of a German-run future.

“Ja,”
he said after his laughter dwindled away, “there will be plenty of room for all talent, too. We Germans welcome such. You will see.”

“Then if you don’t need anything . . .” She let her words fade as she took a little step backward. Much to her embarrassment, his gaze left her face to take in the rest of her, stopping at her feet and perhaps, she thought, seeing if she had on both shoes this time.

“Thank you.”

The two quiet words made her pause. “But I’ve done nothing.”

“You offered to see to my needs. Clara is obviously reluctant, and the nurse who comes now and then . . . she is well-trained but has enough to do without one more patient on her roster.”

Every sensible part of Genny’s brain cried a protest to this man’s gratitude, to his presence here in this country where he wasn’t wanted. How easy it would be to hate this German, like all the others. Effortless. He still wore a uniform, of sorts, a blatant reminder of the invaders who had killed her husband.

Yet wasn’t God still in the individual? Not in the army as a whole, but in each and every man who welcomed Him? Belgian, English, French, and German, too?

No. Not in those who made up such an army.

She backed away. Without another word, she fled down the hallway and the stairs, sure he would not be able to follow.

12

We submit this issue with best regards to our most avid reader, Military General-Governor Freidrich Wilhelm Freiherr von Bissing. As you now hold in your hand that which you have tried suppressing by recent arrests, perhaps you will admit you hold innocent Belgians against their will.

La Libre Belgique

Edward found Rosalie waiting at the usual spot, in the shadow of the cathedral of Saints Michel and Gudule on Rue de la Chancellerie. It was a familiar spot between the long walk to Rosalie’s home in Lower Town and the letter boxes they’d each been assigned in Upper Town. It was a walk they both knew well, although Rosalie probably best. They passed Rue de Loxum toward Place de la Monnaie where, before the war, Rosalie used to practice her artistry on the faces of famous actors and singers. Now she used her talents only on faces like Edward’s, seeking anonymity instead of fame.

Since it was safer to walk in pairs, they’d often met at this spot an hour before curfew with enough time to spare getting back to Rosalie’s. After a day of clandestine deliveries, seeing Rosalie used to bring comfort. It meant another day of offering hope to an oppressed population through the paper. Staying free to work again.

But lately her company brought less comfort.

She greeted him with her familiar smile—perhaps, he thought, a little too eagerly. Many times during this same walk he’d looped her arm through his, or they’d laughed as often as they dared without drawing too much attention to themselves. Not today; he walked silently at her side, all the way back to her home. He hadn’t been there since the day after the arrests, had stayed just long enough to assure himself she wasn’t among those taken. Since then he’d slept like a vagabond on one church floor or another or in abandoned flats to which he had the key thanks to his connections through
La Libre Belgique
.

Jan was expected at Rosalie’s, but her house was dark and cold. Edward tried to light a lamp after finding there was no electricity. He followed Rosalie to the kitchen, where she bent over the stove to heat a kettle.

He withdrew the bread he’d received earlier from Father Clemenceau, taken from the top, visible layer of his specially sewn bag. The bag offered two sections: one compartment for the bread or other such innocuous items and another barely noticeable beneath that, except for at the seam from which he could pull one page at a time, empty now of more than fifty copies of their news sheet. Rosalie had sewn a dozen such bags, each used by couriers for the secret newspaper.

Rosalie brought a pitcher of water and cups, filling each. She took a seat then, watching him all the while.

“I’ll see Father Clemenceau tomorrow about more paper,” Edward said. “Have you thought any more about a replacement for the St. Michel distributor?”

“Yes, the boy Felix told me about before leaving for the border will work. He’s willing.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Nothing more than that Felix recommended him.”

“Let’s hope we can trust that, then.” Edward stood to retrieve a knife from the drawer where he knew Rosalie kept them and set about cutting the bread. “I’d like to write another article about the difference between true justice and what’s happening under the Germans. Or perhaps we should let the topic of the arrests die with the issue we just finished and go on as if nothing has ever happened. That would chafe them more, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

Edward handed her a piece of the bread. He cut another slice for himself.

“Edward. Sit.”

He obeyed.

“Shouldn’t we talk?”

“We are.”

“You’ve kept yourself so busy these last days I’ve barely seen you. And when I do, you can’t even bring yourself to look at me anymore. Did I do something to offend you?”

“No, of course not. What could you have done?”

“Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”

He sent her a smile that had always soothed her in the past. “Then nothing is changed.”

She set aside her bread, leaning forward. “But something is. You’re more distant than ever.”

He stood again, to retrieve the plates he should have brought when he cut the bread. He gave one to Rosalie and kept one for himself. “Every month there are new arrests, Rosalie. Our turns are bound to come. Now is not the time—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard you say that before, only everything around me and everything inside me says differently. We’re alive, Edward. Every day we should live as if it were our last, instead of hoarding it.”

Hoarding life? He was willing to bring the battlefield right here to Brussels in the form of joining others who worked on an underground press, to help inspire the whole of Belgium toward the hope that one day their occupiers would be shut out, pushed back, made to pay for their crimes. He was willing to spit in their collective eye as no one with a real identity would dare. Yet here he sat with one young woman, afraid to tell her he knew what she wanted but had found he had nothing to give after all.

“I won’t tell you how to live, Rosalie.”

A moment ago it had seemed she was the stronger of the two, pressing him to speak when he didn’t want to. But with those few words she seemed to shrivel, her shoulders drooping, her eyelids wilting.

She offered a smile but the corner of her mouth trembled and he remembered why he found her so attractive. Strength and weakness all at once.

“You’re too comfortable with me. I’ve always thought so,” she whispered. “Unlike me. I’m far more uncertain around you.” She set her bread on the plate and rubbed her hands together, looking down at them. “I suppose I should find someone who cannot possibly wait for better times to be with me.”

He reached for one of her hands, but she withdrew it before contact could be made.

“Rosalie? Edward, are you here?”

Jan’s voice had never been more welcome. Edward called to him.

“Look!” Jan waved a paper in front of him as he neared the table, and even in the dim light of the open wood-burning stove, Edward could see excitement in Jan’s normally cool eyes. “It’s another issue, same number as the one we issued right after the arrests. I’ve been trying to track it down all afternoon, and all I could learn was it came from right here in Brussels. There are others left out there besides us.”

He held another
La Libre Belgique
—similar in style and set, but not their own, issued as if in correct succession. Edward had to do little more than read the first line of the top article to know it was legitimate—illegitimately legitimate, as it were.

Jan was nearly smiling. Knowing they weren’t alone was heady indeed. But Rosalie didn’t smile, and Jan hardly seemed to notice.

13

Beware the German wolves wearing civilian sheep’s garb.

La Libre Belgique

“I told you, she will not see you.”

“And I tell you again, she is the one to decide.”

“If you don’t leave this minute, I’ll have you removed. And I’ll contact the Kommandantur in the process.”

“You want them here no more than I do. Now go. Get your mistress.”

Isa heard the voices at the kitchen door just as she stepped past the doorway from the dining room. Clara’s impatience was obvious, and although the man spoke excellent French, he did so with a decidedly American accent.

“Clara?”

She saw the servant stiffen, turn her head slightly, then slam the door. But the man on the other side evidently did not take offense. He knocked a moment later.

“What is going on?” Isa asked.

“A man—a stranger—says he wishes to speak to you, but I do not trust him.”

“Why ever not? Who is he?”

“A stranger; that’s enough!”

“Oh, Clara, let the man in.”

“I dare not!”

Isa pursed her lips. It was uncommonly early, just past nine. But sleepless nights worrying over and missing Edward ended sooner when she rose early and kept herself busy with whatever household duties she could find. She passed Clara and opened the door.

“Oh,
mademoiselle
!” Clara hurried from the room.

The man in front of Isa wore civilian clothes and was not much taller or older than Isa herself. He was handsome, with chocolate brown hair and eyes that matched and a sudden smile that showed slightly crooked teeth—indeed, his only apparent flaw, which made him all the more disarming.

“What can I do for you?”

“You’re an American!” He spoke in perfect English.

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“I’m from America, too. Ohio, ma’am. Cincinnati.”

She raised her brows. “But how did you know an American lives here?”

He pointed to the paint on the cement stairway leading up to the door, a blight on the once-pristine exterior. “
Nicht plündern.
You’re one of the few houses around here without the comings and goings of a bunch of Jerries.” He looked around as if nervous. “Say, listen, can I come in?”

Isa looked too, but behind her, wondering where Clara had gone. She saw no reason to turn him away. “We don’t have much food, but we have bread and tea. Would you like some?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood back to let him into the kitchen, where he took a chair as she moved to the cookstove to light a flame under a pot of water. Then she retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and went into the pantry for the bread. Back at the table, she set about cutting several slices and glanced at the young man sitting before her.

“Why are you here, in Belgium?”

He hesitated. “We’re alone?”

She nodded, handing him a piece of bread.

“I came over with the Canadians,” he said. “I think it stinks what the Jerries did to Belgium, and so I joined up to fight. Got all the way to the front. Trouble is, I got separated from my unit. We were fighting over at Ypres.” He pronounced the town as if it rhymed with
wipers
, and Isa had to catch her bottom lip to suppress a rude giggle. He certainly
sounded
American!

The young man looked suddenly serious as he set the uneaten bread aside and leaned forward, running his hands over his face as if rubbing away what he saw in his mind. When he looked at her again, his eyes were wet, the rims red. “I’ve been hiding out for months now, blending in here and there. But I have to go back. My men need me.”

“Your men?”

“Well, the men I was with. I’m not an officer or anything. ’Course you couldn’t even tell I’m a soldier in these civilian clothes. I stole ’em off somebody’s clothesline. But even though I’m just a private, I’m a pretty good shot and I don’t want them to think I deserted. I’ve got to get back.”

“Then what are you doing as far behind the lines as Brussels?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I couldn’t just walk back to the right side, you know? So I kept going, getting as far away from the fight as I could. As I figure it, I’ll have to go all the way up to Holland and rejoin the Allies from there. They can put me wherever they want, so long as I’m fighting again.”

It was a sound plan, and he seemed sincere, especially since his English was so natural.

She added tea to the hot water and let it sit, watching him eat his bread. He did so slowly, as if he’d been raised in a proper, polite home.