Whisper on the Wind (26 page)

Isa remembered the letters she’d carried from Holland and the stories Gourard had told of soldiers with their dying wish to speak to their mothers in a letter.

“Perhaps he did try to write to you,” Isa said. “I’m sure his last thought must have been of you, his mother.”

“I’ll never know.”

“If only the Germans would let through letters from soldiers to families. Even a censored letter is better than nothing.”

“I know some get through,” Pierrette said, low. “Surely you’ve seen the placards of those punished for carrying such letters. Heroes, every one of them!”

Isa nodded. She didn’t count herself among them, having done it only once.

Pierrette sighed. “Ah, we must hold dear our heroes,
mademoiselle
. Do you agree?”

Isa nodded again, thinking of Edward and all he’d done in the past two years.

“I would be willing to do anything for my countrymen. And I’ve done so little, yet that’s why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I heard one accuse me of counting trains and conveying information to the Allies. Imagine! How was I to have sent that information, even if I was doing such a thing?” Her gaze wandered down the corridor to the cell belonging, for the moment at least, to her husband. “Same for my beloved Jean-Luc. They came for him this morning when I was out. When I came home, they were waiting for me.”

“But you said you’ve done so little for your countrymen. You have done something, then?”

Pierrette laughed and eyed Isa. “You ask a lot of questions,
ma petite
.”

“Yes, I’ve always been a pest, so I’ve been told.” According to Edward.

Pierrette laughed again, and it sounded so strange amid their surroundings that Isa studied her closely.
She’s an odd one. One moment mourning her misfortune and the next able to laugh at light humor.

“Tell me of yourself,
mademoiselle
,” Pierrette said. “I know that you are not a workingwoman. I can tell from your nightclothes. You come from Upper Town, yes?”

Isa nodded.

“Were you born in Brussels?”

“America.”

“Ah, I thought as much. Your French is excellent, though.”

Isa said nothing.

“You are American, then. What are you doing here?”

“My father is Belgian. I am Belgian.”

Pierrette brushed a hand Isa’s way. “This is no reason to be here
now
. Why didn’t you go to America before the Germans came?”

Isa looked away from the woman’s obvious interest. Perhaps it was the surroundings or perhaps Pierrette’s own words. Even if the two of them did share a cell, they were strangers. And no one talked to strangers anymore. Still, Isa could think of no possible reason not to be friendly. “We did—that is, my parents did.”

“Ah, they left you? But you are so young! How could they do such a thing?”

Isa suddenly regretted her decision to talk. She couldn’t very well admit they’d taken her along but she’d returned on her own.

“My parents have always considered me inconvenient.” That much was true.

Pierrette reached across the narrow gap between their cots to stroke Isa’s cheek gently. “
Ma petite
, how can a child be an inconvenience?”

How indeed? She’d wondered that herself.

“How has it been for you, living without your parents? Have they been in touch?”

“Now who asks all the questions?”

Pierrette shifted on her cot, looking straight up at the ceiling. “Perhaps we have something in common. We are both pests?”

“I haven’t heard from my parents.”

“But surely if they left you behind, they know where you are?”

Isa didn’t answer. She’d probably said too much already, although she wasn’t quite sure it was necessary to be so cautious. At least not with someone on this side of the cell bars. She leaned back on the cot, listening as Pierrette continued to talk of her son, of her husband, of how happy they’d been before the war. Isa found it comforting to hear someone speak about how life had been before. Pierrette told of their bakery and Isa’s mouth watered to remember the
tartelettes aux fruits
,
brioches
,
cornets à la crème
, and how families used to come at teatime for the delicate pastries and to drink chocolate. But they’d closed along with the other bakers in September, unable to get flour even from the CRB.

Isa didn’t speak, only listened, until all the noises around them grew still, and after a while Pierrette talked herself to sleep. Isa lay there in the silence, unable to stop wondering what God had in mind with this.

“You will put this on.” The guard thrust familiar clothing at Isa through the bars. She heard shoes drop to the cement floor with a clunk and reached for them eagerly, scooping them against her chest.

Isa turned to hastily change, removing her robe and for modesty’s sake pulling her dress over her nightgown. The guard, she noticed, made no effort to leave or turn away until she was finished.

“So,” Pierrette said with a half smile, “either they have shown you a kindness or they take you to trial.”

Isa caught the word. “Trial?”

“Will they try you in your nightgown, for all to see how they arrested you? I don’t think so.”

Isa smoothed out the wrinkles of the day dress. It was her mother’s dark green with high neck and snug long sleeves. No doubt Genny had chosen it from among the others because it was modest yet fitting. It felt tight over the thin layer of her cotton nightdress.

Isa brushed her fingers through her long hair. “I wish they’d sent something to tie this out of my way.”

Pierrette reached up, pulling a ribbon from her own unkempt hair. “Here.” She handed it to Isa. “It may help.”

“But I don’t know if I’ll be able to give it back.”

Pierrette laughed. “Confident you’ll be set free after the trial, are you?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I think the Germans will decide that.”

Isa slipped her feet into the shoes. Something poked her toe from the tip and she hastily looked around to be sure she was unobserved before removing a small, crumpled piece of paper.

She recognized the handwriting immediately. Edward . . . comforting
her
with Scripture. That alone was answer to prayer.

She tucked the scrap of paper under her dress, noticing too late that Pierrette watched. The older woman smiled and looked away, without asking the obvious.

Prisoners were given no breakfast—not that Isa cared. She doubted she could eat, especially with memories of the vile meal they’d been served the night before. Some sort of oats. Colorless, tasteless. Tepid.

Soldiers soon returned and announced that Isa was to follow.

Before leaving, Isa turned to Pierrette, wishing her God’s protection until the day the cell doors opened for her.

“If we make it through our trials—both of us—perhaps we shall see each other again someday, yes? outside this prison?”

Isa nodded, but her thoughts were already on what awaited her. She turned back to the guards and silently followed.

The courtroom was in the back of the Town Hall. The room might have been a small meeting hall, but for the purpose of a German tribunal it was swept clear of all unnecessary furniture or images of wealth or Belgian patriotism. The walls were bare, even the windows barren of drapery. An oblong table was left at the front, with two smaller tables facing the one ahead.

Few people sat on chairs toward the back of the room. She was taken forward and to the left, opposite those who faced her. Three men in military uniform sat at the head of the room, German officers of varying rank. To the right and behind one of the shorter tables with their backs to Isa sat more officers. They appeared to be in conference, oblivious to what went on around them or of her. At Isa’s table was a man in a civilian suit. He was an older gentleman, reading papers in front of him so diligently he didn’t notice her entry either.

She looked around, fully prepared to see Hauptmann von Eckhart, but he was not there.

Before long one of the three judges facing them called the room to attention. “Isabelle Lassone,” he said. “You will stand before the court.”

She did so.

“You have been charged with aiding an Allied soldier.” The man looked beyond her to those seated at the back of the room. “Meinrad Hindemith, you will stand.”

Isa saw someone rise. It was the young man who had come to her home claiming to be an American, though his hair was combed differently. Confusion made way for realization. So her instinct about him had been right after all. They were trying her for giving a stranger a piece of bread? How had von Eckhart found out about that?

“Step forward,” one of the judges commanded.

Isa was about to move, but the man at her side put a hand on her wrist. She looked to see Hindemith stand in front of the judges.

“Is this the woman who gave you aid when you posed as an Allied soldier?”

He turned around to face Isa, taking a leisurely look at her. She remembered thinking he was a fine-looking young man, apart from the one crooked tooth, but now she noticed something he’d hidden before, more an attitude than tangible. He looked overly confident, puffed up.

“Yes, this is the woman.”

“How did she give you aid?”

“She took me into her home and gave me food and drink.”

“And did she offer help for you to find your way back to the Allied army?” another of the three judges asked.

At this the man lost a measure of that pride. “She was obviously in sympathy for me as an Allied, as proven by the meal she offered.”

“But did she offer a path out of the country?”

He folded his hands behind his back. “No, but when I inquired how she returned to Brussels so suddenly, she was obviously hiding something. There is no doubt she smuggled herself into the country as a spy.”

Isa opened her mouth to deny it, but the man beside her once again put a hand around her wrist. She looked down at him, every bit as bewildered as alarmed. Was he here to defend her or to aid the Germans with their charges?

“You may be seated,” one of the judges said. “Isabelle Lassone, you will step forward.”

Isa stepped around the table and took the spot the German spy had vacated. She held her chin high. If this was their strongest evidence, how much danger could there be? It was ridiculous, ludicrous to accuse her of something even their own witness denied.

“Is it true that this man, claiming to be an American fighting for the Allies, came to your door seeking help?”

“Yes.”

“And did you offer him help?”

“He was hungry; I gave him bread. He was thirsty; I gave him drink.”

The judge-advocate in the center merely raised one cynical brow. “So you are saying you would have done this for any stranger coming to your door?”

“Yes.”

“And did you discuss helping him get out of Belgium to ultimately rejoin his supposed army?”

“He said that was his desire.”

“And you did nothing to discourage this?”

“I don’t remember what I said, only that I could not help him.”

Another judge, the one on the right, spoke up. “How is it, Fräulein Lassone, that you vacated Brussels with your parents on the eve of this war and two years later showed up at your family home, demanding the soldiers billeted there be evacuated so you may live there again?”

“I wished to live in my own home.”

“Yes, but where were you for those two years?”

“In hiding,” she answered, truthfully enough. “From my parents. They didn’t want me in Belgium.”

“And do your parents know where you are since you’ve resumed residence in your family home?”

“I haven’t been in contact with them.”
Lately.

“Have you been in touch with anyone outside of Belgium?” He spoke quickly as if to catch her off guard.

“No.”

There was a pause, and at some length the judge in the center told her to be seated. He looked to the Germans seated at the table next to Isa’s, and one stood to launch their case against the accused. Obviously she was an Allied sympathizer, one who did nothing to alert the proper authorities of an alleged Allied soldier at her very doorstep, thus permitting him to go about his proposed illegal plan. Not only did she hide this from said authorities, she willingly fed him, strengthening him to leave Belgium and rejoin the Allied armies. Thus, she gave sustenance to the enemy. Not to mention the suspicious circumstances of her sudden appearance at her family home. Where was she for those two years? Why had she chosen to return to that home? He doubted she told the complete truth, and therefore she was capable of treachery. She should not be allowed to leave until a penalty was paid.

Before any mention of specific penalty, the man at Isa’s side at last stood to address the court. He might have looked rather scholarly if he wore the robes of an advocate or at least a uniform like the others in the room. But although his jacket was tailored, his suit was shabby from wear.

“Officers of the court,” he began with obvious respect, “I ask you to be lenient with this young woman, whose only crime was to act on her Christian faith and feed a hungry stranger at her door. It is as simple as that.”

He paused for such a long time Isa thought he might be finished. And while there might be wisdom in simplicity, she wondered if such a short statement indicated her case was on the extreme end of unimportance.

“As for the rest of the suspicions, these are unfounded and without evidence. She has said or done nothing to indicate her attitude as anything except that of a young Christian, without animosity toward Germans or the German Imperial Army. And might I remind you, with all due respect, that while she is the daughter of an influential Belgian family, she is indeed also an American citizen by virtue of her birth to an American mother in that country across the sea. A country that has done all in its power to aid those in need in this very country. I ask lenience, above all, because she is young and naive and did nothing more than act on her personal faith.”

Then he sat down and the prosecuting German across the aisle stood again.