Whisper on the Wind (38 page)

“Thank you,” Isa said breathlessly. A Bible, paper, and a pencil. She looked up from the gift to the guard who had just handed it through the bars. He was blond and Aryan, with a broad forehead, blue eyes, stocky build. Then she added in German, “
Danke, danke!
You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

“You speak German,
Fräulein
!”

She nodded.

He pointed to the Bible. “Because of your hymns, I thought you would like that.”

“Oh, I do!” she assured him. “The days are long here.”

When he started to turn away, Isa spoke quickly. “What’s your name?”

He turned back to her. “Franz.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Isa.”

He diverted his face slightly and did not take the proffered hand, but somehow it didn’t seem like arrogance holding him back.

She did not withdraw her hand, watching him closely. “Franz?” she coaxed. “Will you not shake my hand?”

Slowly, his hand rose to take hers, but briefly.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He smiled, not letting his gaze meet hers.

“Franz,” she said, “maybe you could sit and talk to me a bit. Would it bring trouble to you if you did?”

He looked behind him, then shook his head.

Isa watched as Franz moved his stool from the farthest edge of the intermediate room to sit close to the bars in front of her. And then she started talking. She wasn’t sure what compelled her, except several days of silence. She knew once Franz left, she had no chance of talking to anyone, and so, even to her own amazement, the uniform he wore, the country to which he was loyal, the army he represented, suddenly made no difference. He was just a boy, not much older than herself, who could smile and show kindness. And she learned of his family: a sister and parents who loved him and wished the war were over. Just like countless Belgian families. She did not sleep on the cot at all that night. Instead she talked the entire length of Franz’s shift.

She could do all the sleeping she wanted tomorrow.

* * *

“Guard.”

Max’s voice was neither stern nor commanding; rather it was composed and quiet.

Nonetheless it was enough to send the dark-haired day guard swiftly to his feet, so swiftly that the stool flew out from under him and hit the wall with a crash before tumbling to the floor.

“Sir.”

“I wish to see the prisoner in cell twenty-five.”

Max watched the discombobulated soldier scurry for the key. His hands fumbled with the lock; then Max stepped into the intermediate cell. The moment he saw Isa, he was grateful he’d put off Edward until later.

Though she stood and appeared strong enough, with something of a dim smile on her face, she looked repugnant. Her hair had been chopped away in chunks, her eyes faintly purple beneath those blue pools. Her bottom lip was cracked and slightly swollen. And her dress, if a rag could be called that, possibly came from another inmate by the way it smelled.

He stood before the bars.
“Fräulein.”

“
Guten Tag
, Major,” she said. “I’m very surprised to see you.”

Aware of the guard behind him, Max chose his words carefully. “I learned of your sentence. I am sorry.”

His sorrow did not seem to penetrate her steady facade. “Do you know the sentence for Genny?”

He offered her a smile. “She is free. Safe and well.”

Her eyes closed. Against tears of relief?

“But for you,” he began slowly, “I have no authority to alter things. I do promise you fresh water to wash with, a change of clothes. The German army can extend that much.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Amazement washed through him. There she stood, unemotional and calm, utterly collected. He was unsure he could achieve the same under similar circumstances. And he’d come to comfort
her
.

He started to turn away, but she moved forward ever so slightly.

“Do you have scissors or a knife?”

Every soldier had an army-issue knife. His own was in his pocket. “What would you do with such a thing?”

She moved a hand to one of the dangling strands of her hair in the first self-conscious move he’d seen from her. “Cut the rest of my hair.”

Max pulled out the knife.

The guard behind him moved closer, keys at the ready as Max handed her the tool. What did he think she would do? Attack him? Take her own life? Max swallowed an unexpected lump, hoping he’d read the situation correctly.

Slowly she raised the sharp edge toward her head, but it never came close to her throat. She sliced away the odd lengths that stuck out between shorter cuts like some kind of foolscap. When she cut away the last strand she could reach, he couldn’t say she looked very much better with the hair so closely shorn, but at least she no longer looked like the jester of old.

“Did I miss any?” she asked.

Max took the knife, motioning her to come closer, for indeed she had missed some in the back. He did what he could, straightening the ends until—from behind at least—she looked like a boy. But it would grow back. . . .

He caught those words meant to comfort before saying them aloud. It wouldn’t grow much before the twenty-seventh.

For the first time he saw sadness in her eyes, perhaps a reflection of the despair he suddenly felt for her. He wanted to leave, to hide from the injustice about which he could do nothing. But instead he stayed put.

“May I tell you of an observation I’ve made,
Fräulein
?”

She nodded.

“When I was recuperating, before you and the others came to live at your house, I spent much of my time at the window, watching the birds that live in the trees nearby. I watched them hunt food, build nests, squabble. But sometimes they simply fly, as if that’s the thing they most enjoy. It’s as if each little bird found the gift God bestowed upon him and flies just to thank the Creator that he can. But—” he lowered his voice—“if he senses danger, he no longer floats along with the wind; he turns abruptly and flies into it. It gives him height, sends him higher, faster, to do what he must. He flies
into
the wind.

“Do you know what I learned from that? I learned when we’re in trouble, we should let those troubles carry us higher—closer to God Himself, who is never unaware of what we face. The wind—or our trouble—isn’t necessarily our foe if we let it take us closer to God. Somehow, like that little bird whose flight itself brings Him glory, He’ll let us bring Him glory, too.”

Her gaze had not left his face, and he knew he had her attention. When he finished, she started to bite her lip, then winced from a forgotten bruise and tried to smile.

“Thank you, Major.”

Max turned to leave but remembered something else. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” He withdrew the pieces of her flute from his inner pockets. “I found this in your home.” He didn’t tell her about the looters, that the flute was nearly the only thing they’d missed. “I thought you might like to have it.”

“Yes!” She reached for it eagerly. He was glad he’d brought it since it returned the smile to her face. “Thank you.”

And then he left. He had much to do before he let Edward come.

40

London Estimates German Casualties in the Millions

. . . 
La Libre Belgique
acknowledges the upcoming birthday of the German Kaiser. Certainly the Kaiser has impacted the world, and an acknowledgment of the date of his birth is only fitting. But what can be said of the man who erected an altar of blood and iron upon which were sacrificed those millions of soldiers?

May this birthday be his last.

La Libre Belgique

Edward kept his eyes on the Major, praying he didn’t do anything to give himself away. That he spoke German was perhaps as vital to his disguise as the cassock he wore. Condemned prisoners were allowed to see priests or chaplains, but only German ones.

He wasn’t sure how the Major knew his way so easily. The prison was huge and cavernous and the way was dimly lit by covered torches placed here and there, sending shadows along the low, arched ceiling. Countless smells assaulted him, the best of which was simply mold. The worst he didn’t wish to name. He heard sounds now and then, coughing or banging, an occasional shout. No talking, however. Not a single calm, conversational tone to be heard.

At last the Major stopped at what appeared to be a solitary dead end set apart from other cells. The Major said nothing. The guard, a dark-haired man not much taller than Jonah, though considerably older, stood at attention the moment they approached.

“Sir.”

Edward, still standing behind the Major, saw little and had to fight the impulse to peer around him in search of Isa. But not wanting to give himself away, he waited.

The guard unlocked the bars and a moment later Edward followed the Major into an inner holding cell. At last his gaze found her. The cell was barely lit by a single torch just outside the bars. She was sitting on a cot, and in her lap was an open book. It appeared to be a Bible. When she’d looked up at the guard opening the outer lock, Edward noticed her shorn hair and bruises, but her posture was healthy, her eyes alert. As she caught sight of him, he saw the beginning of an astonished smile.

Setting aside the Bible, she stood and neared the bars, her gaze locked to his.

“You will allow the father to go in with the prisoner,” the Major said.

There was a slight hesitation, but even Edward knew a German private wouldn’t defy an officer. He was inside in a minute, fighting the urge to take Isa in his arms.

“He’ll hear her confession now. Come along, soldier.”

They left and Edward grabbed Isa to him, hot tears stinging his eyes. He pulled her away just long enough to look at her again, seeing her face was wet with tears too.

“Isa, Isa,” he whispered and kissed her. He was gentle, mindful of the bruises that marred her lovely face. He brushed a hand over her short blonde hair, his other hand still at her back. The linen blouse was rough—though surprisingly clean—beneath his touch. She was the first thing he smelled that didn’t offend the senses: no familiar perfumed soap but clean nonetheless. He’d been angry with the Major earlier when he said he must go alone to see about getting Edward in, but now he wondered if the Major was the one responsible for Isa’s being the only clean spot in the place.

Edward put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I’m doing everything I can to get you out of here. Mr. Whitlock is working on it too. We’re even petitioning Pope Benedict to intercede on your behalf.”

Her brows rose. “I’m not even Catholic!”

“Yes, well, we have plenty of friends who are. We’re petitioning through Father Clemenceau. My mother is helping in any way she can.”

“Your mother? Have you seen her, then?”

“Yes, thanks to the Major.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the Major had disappeared. “He’s not so bad, really, despite his lineage.”

“He’s a son of God,” she whispered.

“And so am I,” Edward whispered back.

Her blue eyes swam with tears again. “Edward . . .”

He nodded. She hadn’t misunderstood.

“Oh, Edward!” She held him close, murmuring nearly incoherent words. “Thank God! I am at peace.”

Edward smiled, remembering Father Clemenceau’s words. She needed him to be strong spiritually most of all. . . . He was glad he’d been able to show her he was at last.

Still, he needed to be honest. “I’ve been trying to figure out why God allowed you to be put here instead of me. Isa, you live His love like a reflex. Even now, in this place, you haven’t turned away from Him like I might have done. I think some people need His protection more than others because we just aren’t strong enough in our faith.”

“He sends me so much of His love.” She glanced down at the Bible on the cot, leaving the circle of his arms to retrieve it. “Do you know whose Bible this is, Edward? It’s Edith Cavell’s. She was the English nurse who helped so many men find their way across the border to freedom. She helped my brother, Charles. Have you heard of her?”

Edward nodded; he’d known his share of guilt about her too, since he’d directed more than one man to her network when it existed. Charles Lassone being among the men she’d helped was news to him.

“Her Bible is full of notes and praises. She must have meditated night and day before . . . well, until she died. It’s quite an example to follow, and somehow God intervened to get this to me.”

Though she held the book like the treasure it was, his heart weighed heavy at the thought of the nurse standing before a firing squad. Edward pushed away the image of Isa facing the same fate.

“Isa.” He bit the desperation in his voice, too late to call it back.

She folded the Bible to her chest and placed her free hand across his lips. “No, Edward. Don’t say anything except that you love me. I couldn’t stand anything else.”

He held her against him, fighting tears. “I do love you, Isa. I always have even though I tried to ignore it. Now I know what a fool I was to hold that back, to wait until it’s too late. I’m sorry.”

“You did what you thought was best for both of us. Don’t be sorry.”

“I want to marry you.”

The sound of her laughter was like music. “I’ve wanted to marry you since I was seven years old. But whom would you care to invite to this sacred ceremony? Will the guard be enough or did you want General von Bissing here too? Or maybe we could wait until the Kaiser is in town . . .”

But she didn’t finish. His arrival would be the day of her execution.

He drew her close and felt her tremble. “I came here today to give you hope, to tell you I’m working on a plan to free you.”

He rested his forehead on hers, but she didn’t respond.

“I love you, Isa. I would spend every moment here at your side if they’d let me.”

They heard the Major clearing his throat, and Edward stepped away at the approach of the guard.

Edward left Isa with a smile he knew must have seemed grim, but it was the only one he could muster. As he walked away, he secretly vowed that nothing,
nothing
, would prevent him from stopping her sentence—or he would join her in heaven trying.