Whisper on the Wind (36 page)

They called the first victim. Isabelle Lassone.

A woman stood and stepped before the judges. She might have been pretty once; who could tell? Her face was covered with bruises, her loose, peasant-style dress soiled and shapeless . . . and somehow familiar. This court has seen prisoners brought in before wearing just such hideous garb. Her hair might have been lovely some time ago, probably blonde if allowed to be clean. Instead, much of it was shorn close to her head, with oddly missed strands sticking out at peculiar angles.

How thorough the prosecutors were to include altering the image of the accused so as not to arouse unwanted sympathy in the men who would judge her.

They recited the list of crimes she’d committed against the Imperial Government: illegally housing the press and printing
La Libre Belgique
, writing for
La Libre Belgique
, distributing
La Libre Belgique
. Indeed, they accused her of being the very core of the organization, the cellar of her residence reputed to be the legendary “automobile cellar” that had for so long produced the illegal newspaper.

Added to that crime, this Mademoiselle Lassone was formerly found guilty of aiding an Allied soldier, at which time she was shown pity and given a light sentence of a mere fine. Most recently, while housed in St. Gilles, she incited a riot within the cellblock, refusing to carry out work generously provided in order for inmates to productively pass their time. She inspired others to sing a banned song of Belgian patriotism. She is, members of the court were told, a leader and a spark, one who inspires followers in her rebellious ways. For that reason alone, a harsh and memorable punishment must be granted.

Crime:
Verrat in einer Zeit des Kriegs.
Treason in a time of war. Proposed sentence:
Todesstrafe.
Death.

To her credit, this Belgian patriot swayed only slightly when the requested sentence was announced. No hysterics, no tears. She closed her eyes and stood stiff as if blocking out her surroundings. Other prisoners behind her appeared shocked, afraid, timid. Just the sort of reaction the virulent Doktor Stuber undoubtedly craved.

The defense barrister stood.
La Libre Belgique
was still in operation, he claimed while balancing passion with caution. Despite the accusation that this woman was at its core, a new issue had been found only that morning. A nimble hand had pinned a copy to the sentry just outside the Palais de Justice door. Nor was there evidence she’d ever written for the paper. The Allied soldier, the spy to whom she’d given aid, had himself admitted she didn’t offer to help him flee the country.

The barrister finished with a plea for leniency of the court, reminding them that she was an American citizen by virtue of her mother and her birth in that country. To condemn one of their own to death now, when an apparently endless number of American men might soon be called against Germany, would only inspire them to their arms all the quicker.

Doktor Stuber need barely have listened. It is the way of German justice to see only one damning fact at a time. After all, Isabelle Lassone’s home housed the infamous automobile cellar. (
La Libre Belgique
offers this with a grim irony, as our surroundings are untouched, our paper still free, our voice undiminished.)

And while the Germans prove once again the sham of their justice,
La Libre Belgique
will mourn the shortened life of yet another lovely young patriot.

Those German citizens filling the streets of Belgium who knowingly support the continued injustices perpetrated by their country are guilty, at the very least, of criminal blindness.

La Libre Belgique

37

Edward stumbled on the pavement. A nearby sentry looked his way and Edward turned, afraid of attention. He walked. Not slow, not fast. He no longer felt the cold, didn’t care when the wind stole his hat. He paid no attention to where he headed. Inside his head spun a whirlwind.

Though he’d spent the morning spinning more productively—seeing to final details regarding distribution of
La Libre Belgique
’s special edition—with that finished, Edward could no longer push away the truth.

A death sentence. Firing squad.

The words echoed in his head, over and again with the same result. Death.

Nausea accompanied each vision of Isa at the hands of the Germans, sent to Tir National like the others.

He didn’t even have the comfort of going to his mother or to his friend Jan—both sentenced to labor in Germany. His mother for three years’ servitude, his friend deported to a work camp.

And so he walked. He must move, must clear his mind of images too ghastly to withstand. One step led to another; it didn’t matter where he went.

At last, the twin towers of the cathedral loomed overhead. He should go inside and pray. He should plead with God to save her, and maybe somehow . . .

Edward kept walking. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. His jacket was not enough to ward off the chill. Yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know where to go.

He could go to Rosalie’s abandoned home. She’d gotten safely away, and Jonah too.

But Henri hid at Rosalie’s, and Edward didn’t want to face him. He couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

The bells rang at the chapel he shared with Father Clemenceau. He hadn’t meant to come here; he hadn’t been back since Isa’s arrest for fear of being arrested as well. The one time he’d met the father was under cover of a crowd, and neither had been dressed as priests. Now Edward found he didn’t care about the risk. He made his way into the sanctuary.

Walking slowly up the aisle, Edward stood before the altar. But he did not bow.

Instead, he folded his arms and stared at the crucifix.

“Edward! What’s happened?”

His voice was so soft and compassionate that for the barest moment Edward felt a childish response: he wanted to burst into tears. But instead he turned to one of the seats and sank onto the unyielding wood. He spoke quietly, telling the priest about the sentences.

“I don’t know what to do.” Edward swallowed again. He knew only one way to steady his emotions, and that was through anger. An anger that came from the core of him. “I know one thing I’m
finished
doing, and that’s praying. I tried that before, Father—and everybody I prayed for is dead. So I’m done asking God for help. His kind of help I don’t want.”

The priest’s perpetually friendly face altered only slightly in raised white brows. “So you think this is all God’s doing?”

Edward leaned forward in his chair. “All I know is that two years ago when I returned from the camps, I prayed for the men I was with. They died. I was the only one who didn’t. And now the people I care about most in this godforsaken world are the ones in trouble. Am I supposed to pray for them now? So they can die too?”

“It’s your fault, then, that whomever you pray for God singles out to die?”

It sounded ridiculous even to Edward, yet he found himself nodding. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. He’s cursed me with life while others—those He brings into my life to love—He takes from me. What kind of jest is that, Father? What kind of God do you serve?”

The father frowned. “A loving one. Do you think God owes you an explanation of why He’s allowed you to suffer? Do you think He must give you an accounting? We speak of God Almighty. And I will say to you what He said to Job: ‘Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding.’ Were you there, Edward, when God created the world? Why should He explain anything to you?”

Edward couldn’t speak, not even to offer a defense.

“God never told Job why He let him suffer,” the priest said, softer now. “But don’t doubt that God is God, Edward, and that He hears each word you utter, knows each thought. His plans may never be revealed to you fully, at least not in this life, but it’s not yours to question. You must accept the sovereignty of God and trust in His goodness even when everything around you feels the opposite. He will bring glory to Himself through you, Edward, if you let Him. And as our Creator, isn’t that the greatest gift He can give?”

Edward’s head was empty and lost, his heart leaden. He had nothing without those he loved. Without Isa. His mother. All his worry, all his caution, had done no good.

He was powerless. And if he could not turn to God, his Creator, then where else could he turn? God was God, and Edward wasn’t. Edward was just a puny man whose effort to protect everyone had failed. He was without the right to challenge his Creator. It would be like holding his palm against the wind to try stopping it. Impossible.

“There is one more thing, Edward,” the priest said gently. “Your girl and your mother need you now more than they ever have before. They need you to be strong in all ways: emotionally, physically, and perhaps most importantly, spiritually. Depend on God for your strength, and He will see you through. You can be certain there is a higher purpose for all of this. I promise you that because He promised it first.”

Your girl . . . Isa, my girl.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said, so low he wasn’t even sure Father Clemenceau could hear. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t apologizing to the priest.

* * *

Isa didn’t see Genny after the trial. She saw her only as she was led from the Senate chamber. Their gazes met for the briefest moment, long enough for Isa to see the anguish in Genny’s eyes.

Isa was taken outside without a coat, herded to the back of a foul-smelling wagon. Someone said, “Vilvorde,” and that made her look up, wondering if some measure of evil glee would accompany the acknowledgment of where she was being sent. Hell, Pierrette had called it.

The castle prison at Vilvorde.

* * *

Maximilian von Bürkel hobbled up the stairs of the building on Rue de Berlaimont. He counted them in French because if he didn’t occupy his mind, he would curse each one. He wasn’t sure what method he would use to keep himself from cursing once he saw von Eckhart.

At the correct door Max strode past yet another sentry, faintly surprised by his own dexterity, barely needing the cane. Perhaps fury was the greatest source of strength and balance.

The sentry had no chance to offer an objection, if he’d been bold enough to make one. Von Eckhart was at his desk and looked up with a smile at Max’s sudden appearance—a smile Max wanted to smash from his face.

“Tell him to shut the door behind him,” Max said. How calm he sounded, deceptively so.

Von Eckhart nodded to the sentry and the man backed out.

“Max! This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you’d gone home to Käethe.”

“I’m back.”

“Oh? And how is she?”

Max never took his eyes from von Eckhart’s. “I want to know about Genevieve Kirkland and Isabelle Lassone.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard about our most recent arrests? We haven’t entirely stopped that foul paper, but we’re closer than ever, I promise you that. And I suppose I should really thank
you
, Max. If it wasn’t for you, I never would have met your Fräulein Lassone or continued having her shadowed by my informant.”

“Don’t give me credit for your false arrest. I came here to clear up this nonsense.”

“False arrest?” He laughed. “You’re too late. The trial was two days ago, and they’ve both been found guilty. With plenty of evidence, I might add. Do you mean to tell me you never once heard that press running in the cellar? smelled the ink?”

“I can guarantee that Frau Kirkland had nothing to do with it.”

“There I must disagree, my friend. Surely she knew; she was one of them. In all probability she was the distraction to prevent you from finding out about the whole thing.”

Max’s jaw clenched—even if that was a scenario he’d already considered. “You said the trial is over. I came straight from the train. Tell me Frau Kirkland’s sentence.”

Von Eckhart stood. “Ten thousand francs. Three years’ penal servitude.”

“Either, or?”

“Both.”

For the first time since entering the building, Max’s anger failed him. He looked behind for a chair and, seeing one, sank into it.

Von Eckhart came around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge closest to Max. “Look, old man, I didn’t know you cared for the woman. I thought when you went back home, you’d found out about the press but didn’t want to be the one to betray them. I know you’re the loyal type.”

Max barely listened.
Three years.
“Is she still in Brussels?”

“Frau Kirkland is at St. Gilles. She won’t be moved until after the Kaiser’s birthday. Everything waits until the celebration. Did you know we’re going to have cameras? Filming the Grand Place with cheering civilians, so happy to wish their benevolent new leader a happy birthday.” He laughed again. “Of course, those civilians will be Germans and not Belgians, but who will know? Fortunately for us, cameras do not record the sound of German voices.”

Max stared at von Eckhart. “There was a fine assigned. I’ve heard rumors about such matters. If I offer to pay that fine . . . along with, shall we say, an extra incentive . . . might they agree to pardon the rest?”

Von Eckhart sucked in a breath. “I don’t know. The press was found under the roof where she lived. The sentence was light, considering that.”

Max sprang up, fighting for balance with his cane. “I tell you, she never touched a copy of that blasted paper.”

Von Eckhart wasn’t afraid; Max could see that. But he knew von Eckhart respected him, or had once, and Max had never been more earnest in his life.

“You can vouch for her whereabouts, I assume?” von Eckhart whispered. “Day . . . and night?”

“Think whatever you like, but get her out of there.”

“Not so fast, my friend! I need to see some money first.”

Max turned away. After receiving Father Antoine’s note, he’d gone to his family home, where he had money hidden in a vault. But it had dwindled considerably, evidently drained by Käethe before she went to live in the abbey. He had barely enough to cover the initial fine—in Marks, but he doubted von Eckhart would care.