Whisper on the Wind (12 page)

“In any case, even if I had something to do with that paper, you speak as though one person is responsible for it. Anything on that scale would have countless people involved.”

“Then you can use more help! There is something in my home for you—”

“More diamonds?” His condescending attitude was inconceivable, making him like a stranger.

“No. Listen to me. Don’t be angry that I can’t tell you how I found out about your involvement with the paper. Let me help!”

He laughed as if that were the end of their conversation.

“Don’t you want to know what I can offer?”

“No, Isa, I don’t. What I want is for you to forget all of this nonsense and whatever it was you were told.”

She hadn’t been back for long, but she knew people didn’t stroll the streets of Brussels anymore, even in Quartier Léopold. And they certainly didn’t stop to have arguments in broad daylight. But she squared off anyway.

“I won’t have you shut me out, Edward. And I won’t have you thinking I would ever,
ever
, bring you harm. It doesn’t matter how I know about the paper; I just do. So let’s discuss how I can help. There is a room in my parents’ house that no one in Brussels knows about. No one except Henri and me.”

He studied her a moment, as if interested in asking details, but instead leaned forward and took her arm again, walking.

“Will you let me show it to you? Perhaps you can use it to store papers until they can be distributed, or
print
papers, or . . . I don’t know what you need! Only know that this location is there for you if you need it.”

“A location right under the nose of a German Major. Now that’s what I call ingenious, Isa. Who would ever suspect?”

“Yes, that’s entirely the point. What German raid could possibly take place in the residence of a German soldier? It’s the safest place in Brussels.” She pulled back on his arm and he slowed at last. “I know you’re involved with this paper, whether you admit it or not. You don’t actually think I’ve learned that from some
German
source and that I would somehow use this against you?”

He sucked in air, letting it out with a shake of his head. “No. But I would like to know your source. Gourard, back in Holland knew, but I cannot believe he would say something to you, unless he thought you could use the knowledge somehow to persuade me to leave Belgium.”

“Please don’t ask, Edward. I would tell you, but the person who told me is dear to me, and I can’t betray a confidence.” She tried to smile, to coax one out of him as well. “Isn’t this what you need in a conspirator? Someone who knows how to keep a secret?”

He nearly smiled, she was sure of it, but before she could be certain, he drew her onward.

“So, what is your answer, Edward? Will you let me help?”

He turned and started to speak, but his answer was lost in a sudden burst of noise and confusion. At once he lifted Isa from the ground and into his arms, thrusting her against the stone of a nearby fence, holding her immobile. Clattering hooves, men shouting and running closer . . . then past them. Isa saw nothing. Edward held her close, pressing them both to the enclosure.

As fast as it came, the sound disappeared. She saw little with Edward hovering close. But she was in no hurry for him to let go.

Although somewhere down the lane she could still hear the commotion, clearly the danger of being trampled under runaway horses and soldiers was gone. Yet Edward still held her, for the longest moment, as unmoving as the brick wall behind them. Then his hands slowly slid from the makeshift shelter clasped above her head to glide down around her waist.

The tempest was inside of her now. Was this really happening? Was he really holding her, his face so near her own? If she moved her face toward his, surely his lips would find their way to hers.

She had no chance to find out. Once again the street around them erupted into noise, though with measured horses’ hooves and calmer German voices. But she didn’t want to acknowledge them. She wanted to pretend nothing was near except Edward.

He moved away and she stopped herself from pulling him back.

“We should go quickly,” Edward whispered.

She moved to follow, wishing he would keep her hand, but he didn’t. She wasn’t bold enough to slip her arm through his, even though she’d done it casually a dozen times before. Just then any touch seemed fraught with more than it had ever meant in the past.

Before long Edward delivered her back at the gate of her home, where he stopped. The gardens were mainly vegetables instead of flowers these days, but there was still a granite bench under the beech tree near the tall stone fence. She wished he would take her there and let her ask him if he’d felt anything in the flurry of that moment on the street.

But he seemed so eager to leave she wondered if that moment had happened at all.

“Edward, won’t you come in? see for yourself what I’m trying to tell you about?”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“If you and my mother insist on staying here in Belgium, then I won’t be back. It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“Without even seeing the room? It’s the perfect place, exactly what any secret could use.”

His hands were on her shoulders so quickly it startled her, his eyes boring into hers, but neither the touch nor the look was anything she’d imagined. “No. I won’t have it. I won’t have you involved in any of this. Do you understand?”

She shook her head and tears stung her eyes. “But, Edward—all right if you won’t use the room. Promise me you’ll still come here. Without knowing if you’re safe or not . . . I’ve lived that way for nearly two years. Please—”

“No, Isabelle.”

He’d never called her that before, but she welcomed the newness of it, as if he’d realized at last that she should be called a name more befitting a woman than a child.

“Edward, please.” She’d never begged before, never imagined herself begging him or anyone for anything. But pride was trivial compared to what she wanted most. “Tell me you won’t stay away. That you can’t stay away.”

Edward let her go and stepped backward. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he turned, pulled up the collar of his jacket and pulled down the brim of his hat as if to hide his face, and walked away.

11

Only German folly exceeds the lack of discretion to which they routinely adhere, as shown by the most recent mistaken arrests.

La Libre Belgique

“That should do it,” Edward said to Father Clemenceau, rolling two slim sheets of paper, content for another issue of
La Libre Belgique
. The second since the mass arrest.

At least seven of their conspirators awaited trial at St. Gilles prison, just south of Brussels proper, held for these last two weeks without contact. Between Edward and the priest, they had found only three other remaining links in the organization. Jan and Rosalie, by some miracle, had been completely ignored in the most recent round of arrests. Another main supplier survived, who had provided most of the content for the copy now in Edward’s possession.

It would be Edward’s job to get it to the printer.

This was not the longest but was perhaps among the more important issues. The edition from a week ago might have been more vital, following so closely after the arrests, its existence enough to dim many smug German smiles. This second issue would be a needed boost to the morale of every Belgian who fretted over the upcoming trial, and that was just about everyone in Brussels. The paper had survived, no matter how many people they arrested.

Edward handed the rolled sheets to Father Clemenceau while reaching under the table for a walking stick he used for just such an occasion. Turning it upside down and twirling off the tip, he tilted it toward the priest, who slid the papers neatly inside. Then Edward replaced the tip, reached for his suit coat and hat, and with a swift farewell was on his way to the printer Father Clemenceau had persuaded to run one more issue. The printer had not been easily convinced, and after this edition they must find someone else.

Nothing new there.

Edward walked down the street at a brisk though unhurried pace. He did nothing to call attention to himself, keeping his gaze straight ahead. It was three o’clock and even during peacetimes the streets would have been quiet, but now they were near desolate apart from soldiers.

He would have liked to take the tram to shorten the distance to the printer’s but decided that would bring him too close to Germans. So he kept walking, using the enameled stick as though he’d done so a great many years, not because he needed help but because it was an appendage that showed the style of a successful businessman of the age Edward meant to portray.

* * *

Max von Bürkel sat, eyes closed, as strains of “O Day of Rest and Gladness” drifted from the hall, filling the room with melancholy. Somewhere close by, someone played the flute. He knew the words that accompanied the melody weren’t meant to bring sadness but rather comfort. Yet they brought him only pain. Both his sons were buried somewhere south of here, in France. The music, so long absent from Max’s life, brought them to mind with stinging clarity.

He retrieved his crutch with some difficulty and hobbled to the door, opening it and letting the last notes strike him like invisible bullets.

Just as he thought he might walk toward the sound, the melody ended and new music floated in.

Another hymn. He could not hear “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” without thinking of his mother—
“Ein’ Feste Burg,”
as she knew this hymn. For a moment the pain eased as he remembered his mother. He’d lost her, too, but she had gone to a peaceful rest, eager to meet the God who created her.

The memory of his mother faded, replaced again by his boys, and pain shot through him anew. He suddenly wished to join his wife, a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind since she’d left him upon word that their second son had been killed. He thought of her now, not because she would welcome his company or even wish to grieve with him. No, he wished he could be enveloped by the church as she’d been. At the very least, there were no decisions to be made where his wife now resided, no news with which to deal. One didn’t even have to talk, except perhaps to God. And everywhere she turned, she must be reminded that this was not all there was to life, that something else lay ahead. A place with God where, despite an egregious lack of training from their father, perhaps his boys had found a way after all. Certainly there was hope for that; a battlefield was just the place to find God.

Max had found Him there.

He’d been groomed to have allegiance first to God and then to family and country, but somehow it had gotten twisted through the years, with allegiance to the fatherland demanding the most, the best, the deepest in him. But now . . . his gaze fell upon the Bible that had come with this room.

It was his only comfort these days.

Max returned to his chair, leaving the door open, letting the music water his dehydrated spirit.

* * *

Genny rounded the upstairs hallway and headed toward Isa’s room. So, she had not imagined it. The music came not from the music room but from Isa’s own bedroom.

Genny stopped, savoring the sound filling the air. How sweet it was after so long a silence without any music to remind her of her soul. She knew the piano was available to her in the Lassone music room just down the hall but hadn’t the heart to play. Now she stood quietly, letting the fruit of the instrument refresh her. How long it had been since she’d heard any loveliness.

Part of her wanted to go inside Isa’s room, but she didn’t want to interrupt. If music was a salve to Isa’s recent sadness, it was a balm to Genny’s weary spirit. She let herself bask in it awhile, leaning against the hallway wall, eyes closed, as inevitably the music erased her worries in prayer.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, but at last she opened her eyes. Perhaps she could sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the rest—and find Clara, who would probably enjoy the music as well. Genny quietly made her way toward the stairs.

As she passed the Major’s room, she couldn’t help but notice his open door. She found her noiseless footsteps slowing and her gaze traveled within. There he sat, in his large chair in the middle of the room, one crutch held in his lap as if he might use it at any moment. She would have hurried past when she noticed his eyes were closed, but something caught her attention. He sat directly in the light from the open curtains. Perhaps that was what gave it away, the sunlight revealing an odd darkness to his lashes, which otherwise matched the fairness of his hair. And a tiny sparkle glistening just below one eye. A tear?

Was he in pain? Perhaps he’d tried getting to a standing position because he needed something.

Everything inside of her wanted to ignore what she saw. Perhaps she could send Clara to him, just to make sure his needs were met. But Genny’s feet wouldn’t carry her away. Clara had made her feelings about the Major clear; whatever pain he felt would certainly not be alleviated by her—at least not quickly. And so, swallowing something between repulsion and caution, she stepped into the doorway of the Major’s commandeered room.

“Did . . . you need something?”

He didn’t seem to hear her at first, and to her mortification she thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep. What was she doing, looking in on him in his private quarters?

Then his eyes opened and he stared at her. Not in pain, at least not that she could tell. Rather he looked at her with something else, an intensity of the sort one found only when lost to the world around and present somewhere else, immersed in thoughts that lifted body, soul, and spirit away. But it was soon replaced by something like confusion when his gaze stayed on hers, almost as if he’d forgotten who she was.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly aware she’d interrupted his own enjoyment of the music. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I saw your door was open and thought perhaps you needed something.”

He was still staring at her, rather regardfully, as if observing her closely. A tingle of discomfort wound its way up her spine.