Whisper on the Wind (3 page)

“I—I must get off the tram, Edward. I’m sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yes, I must get away from—” She wanted to say
away from the soldiers
but dared not in case any of them spoke French and overheard. “I must get away from this awful tram. The stop and go is making me ill.”

“Another hour. Surely you can last?”

She shook her head even as from the edge of her vision she saw a soldier looking her way. How do you not look guilty when you’re completely, utterly, culpable?

Isa stood as the tram came to a slow stop at the next intersection. She kept her back to the soldiers, jumping to the ground just as soon as it was safe to do so. Then, without waiting for Edward, she walked forward as if she knew exactly where she was going.

She walked a block, well out of sight from the disappearing tram. There she stood . . . not amid one of the lovely villages, with their ancient way of life so quaintly preserved and appreciated. Instead, she found herself at the end of a row of destruction. Crumbling homes, demolished shops. Burned ruins of a town she once knew. Aerschot, where she’d dined and laughed and dreamed of walking the street with Edward’s hand in hers.

A moment later Edward’s shadow joined hers. “Are you positively mad?”

“We’re in Aerschot?” she asked, barely hearing his question.

“Obviously. And several hours’ walk from Brussels. Do you know how ridiculous that was? We don’t need any complications, Isa.”

She faced him. “Your contact didn’t tell you what I’d be carrying, did he?”

Suspicion took the place of the anger on his face. “What?”

“Well,” she began slowly, “I would try to show you, but among other things, I’m afraid I’d never get everything back in place.”

He let out what she could only call a disgusted sigh as he ran a hand through his dark hair—hair that seemed thinner and yet sprang instantly back into place, symmetrical waves that framed his forehead, covered his ears. He needed a haircut, but she found she liked the way he looked too much to think of changing anything, even the length of his hair.

“Isa, Isa,” he said, shaking his head all the while. “I should make you take out every scrap and burn it right here and now. Do you know what could have happened if you’d been searched on that tram?”

“Which is why we’re no longer on it.”

“You might have warned me!”

“I tried!”

He paced away, then turned to stand nearly nose-to-nose with her again. Not exactly the stance she’d dreamed of when she’d imagined him at such close proximity, but it sent her pulse racing anyway.

“You could have been shot. Do you know that? Shot.”

She nodded. “They warned me.”

His brows rose and his mouth dropped open. “Then why did you agree to the risk?”

“Gourard told me there are no newspapers, no information at all about what the rest of the world is doing to try to save Belgium and end this war. How have you lived so long without knowing what’s going on? I have the best portions of a couple of recent newspapers. And I have letters, too. Letters from soldiers. Don’t their families deserve to know they’re all right?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Gourard shouldn’t have taken your life so lightly or trusted such things to a young, naive child.”

“Child! I’m perfectly capable of deciding what risks I will or won’t take. I’m the one to decide what I will or won’t do for Belgium.”

“It was bad enough for you to come back, but to bring contraband—it’s beyond foolish.”

“Edward, don’t be angry with me. I’ll deliver the letters and then be done with it if you like, if it’s too dangerous for us. But I won’t abandon what I brought with me.”

“I don’t care about the risk for me. I’ve done so many things the Germans could shoot me for that one more thing doesn’t matter. It’s you. Maybe the Germans wouldn’t shoot you—being just a girl—but who knows?”

“I’m not—”
. . . just a girl.
But she didn’t bother with the words. She doubted they’d convince him.

She looked away, embarrassed. All she could think of when she agreed to smuggle the letters was how desperately she had wanted news of him and how other families cut off from their loved ones must be desperate too. She couldn’t have refused to take a chance with the letters and lived with herself. “I agreed to take the risk for the same reasons you’ve taken so many. Your mother and father didn’t teach values only to you and Jonah, you know.”

He emitted something between a moan and a laugh, then took her arm. “We’re going somewhere for you to take out the letters. And the newspaper clips.”

“But, Edward—”

He looked at her then, and she could see he was not to be argued with. “I’ll carry them in my cloak. It won’t be the first time.”

2

Monster Armored Cars Used by British in Charge on the Somme

Called “tanks” by those who’ve seen them, Allied soldiers themselves refer to these huge traveling fort machines as “Willies.” Driven like motorcars but able to scale barbed wire, leap trenches, knock down houses, and snap off tree limbs, they are a formidable weapon indeed and will no doubt play an important role in the defeat of the Germans.

La Libre Belgique

They walked the rest of the afternoon, which to Isa was far preferable to sitting within searching distance of any German soldier. Until they came to a checkpoint they could not skirt.

“Put it together,” the soldier said. “Play.”

Sweat moistened Isa’s palms as she looked at the pieces of her flute. Should she run? Not without the flute. And from a soldier with a gun?

She looked from the disassembled instrument to the German, feigning ignorance of his language.

“You . . . you play?” His attempt at French was barely decipherable.

She shook her head even while he shoved the pieces at her as if to convince her with his insistence. This soldier was as stubborn as a caricature in the American newspapers she’d left so far behind.

“You play the music,” he demanded once more, in German again instead of his poor attempt at French.

She leaned away from him, taking a small step back, still shaking her head.

“Ach . . . Dummkopf . . .”

Better a free
Dummkopf
than an imprisoned flutist.

The soldier waved them away. Isa dared a peek at Edward, whose face was as emotionless as, she hoped, her own. If only he knew!

“This way,” Edward said quietly once they were beyond sight of the guard station. She followed him off the road again, back into the bramble that had once been cultivated land.

“Is Genny in Louvain?” She’d wanted to ask details all day, but Edward was in such a sour mood she hadn’t dared.

“We’ll stop in Louvain because of what we’re carrying, but my mother isn’t there anymore.”

“The Bardiou family is still in Louvain,” she said. “I’m sure they will—”

He stopped so suddenly she nearly bumped into him. “No one is left, Isa. No one you knew, at any rate. Stop talking.” Then he turned away from her, not even looking back to see if she could match his stride.

They walked at a steady pace, past farmhouses that looked empty, around motley crops. Mostly weeds grew in the fertile ground these days, with an occasional cluster of wheat, so different from what she remembered.

Isa had visited Louvain many times during the years she’d spent more time with Edward’s family than her own, living in one of the best rooms their exclusive inn had to offer while Isa’s parents often traveled. But as they entered the outskirts, her heart went heavy. This was not the Louvain she knew. Where were the whitewashed brick homes and shops that had once lined the cobblestone street, the flowers that hung from each window, the gardens gracing every yard? Not a blade of color could be found, as if a massive paintbrush had drawn a swath of gray over the town. Entire blocks were burned to the ground; piles of brick and rubble stood crumbling where she’d once shopped and dined. She could tell by Edward’s face that he’d grown used to the devastation, so she hid her horror.

She knew the university was burned, where both her father and brother had attended—and Edward, too, at only sixteen. Perhaps it had been destroyed on the same day Edward’s hotel had burned, since it wasn’t far. American headlines told about the university and its beloved library burning, but Gourard had told her about the hotel.

And St. Peter’s, gone as well. How could they? But she knew that no matter how many of His churches the Germans burned to the ground, God wouldn’t abandon Belgium, not when she needed Him most. Edward must be made to see that . . . somehow.

A smaller chapel still stood, one she’d never visited before. Edward stared at it and she knew that was their destination. At the top of the wide cement steps, open doors beckoned.

Soldiers lingered on a nearby corner, smoking and laughing despite the dinner hour.

“We’ll round the block and come up behind the church.” Edward’s hand cupped her elbow so that even if she wanted to pause, she couldn’t.

They cut through the alley between two shops still intact but abandoned: one a grocer with a torn awning flapping on a breeze and the other with a printer’s logo in the window. Edward led the way to a back entrance of the modest, single-story chapel. Inside, colored light filtered through stained glass. A few people knelt in silent prayer at the altar, candles at each side lit as always in such chapels but perhaps more numerous than before the outbreak of war.

Isa had barely more than a glimpse of the altar as they passed through a hallway and down a narrow stairway leading to a tiled floor below. Downstairs they found several doors, all made of wood that, over the years, had absorbed the smell of incense. Edward went to one and tapped lightly.

A moment later a priest stood in the threshold. Bright dust flecks danced around the outline of his head like a halo, but until he held wide the door, Isa could see only the outline of a man wearing a cassock.

“Edward!” The priest was much older and barely taller than Isa, with a robust smile and the fair complexion of a Fleming, his sparse hair light and gray. “Come in; come in.”

The private chamber offered nothing more than a simple pine desk, a narrow chair before it and a crucifix above two more equally uninviting chairs opposite the desk.

“And whom do we have here? I’ve not seen your face before, young lady.”

“This is Isa Lassone, Father Liquori,” Edward announced. “I’ll be taking her to Brussels, but we have something to leave with you before we finish our trip.”

“Oh? Edward?” He sounded cautious, but his smile never wavered despite his tone of voice. “Are you sure?”

Edward patted the cleric’s shoulder and nodded his assurance. “I’ve known Isa since she was seven, Father. She’s half-American by blood, but pure Belgian by choice.”

“Ah.” He looked her over again, this time with a renewed twinkle in his eye. “You and Edward, you are friends?”

Isa smiled. “Yes, very good friends.”

Edward began opening his bulky shirt. “My mother is a servant of her parents—or used to be—”

“Edward! Your mother is no servant.”

“Well, she was practically your nanny, wasn’t she? That’s a servant.”

“My father is Belgian but my mother is American. My parents have always lived a rather . . . busy . . . lifestyle, but when they first brought me here, they stayed in Edward’s hotel, until arrangements were made for us to move into a home in Brussels. That’s how our families met. Whenever my parents were busy, off I’d go to Edward’s wonderful hotel. His mother made it like a second home to me, which is why I wouldn’t call her a servant. She’s family.”

“Uh-huh.” Edward pulled letter after letter from his ever-flattening middle and more inner pockets than Isa had ever seen in a jacket. “Just ask Isa’s mother if my mother was a servant or not, and she’ll tell you the truth.”

“Oh, Edward.”

“She paid my mother, didn’t she?”

“Why not? I ate her food; she sewed my clothes; she bought me books. Was she supposed to pay for that herself?”

The priest smiled. “I understand how you might be like siblings, then, fighting all the time.”

Isa wanted to utter a hasty denial, assure the priest that Edward was anything but a brother to her, but a single glance told her that Edward hardly cared how their relationship was defined. He’d finished removing the letters he’d carried and was rebuttoning his shirt. All that was left were the two sets of newspaper clippings, one that Edward now held and the other still beneath Isa’s skirt.

“We’ll leave the room while you get the newspaper out,” Edward said.

“No reason to leave.” She reached into the waistband of her skirt and loosened the thick yarn. The paper dropped to the floor.

Before it had a chance to cool from the warmth of her skin, Edward scooped it up and placed it, still folded, next to his own skin, replacing the letters he’d withdrawn.

“I thought you were going to leave everything here,” she said. “Didn’t you say this was as good as the secret depot I’d been instructed to use?”

“And so it is—for the letters. Father Liquori will know what to do with them.”

“What about the newspapers? Where are we taking them?”

“
We
are not taking them anywhere. Father Liquori is taking
you
upstairs to wait until I return.”

“But where are you going?”

The priest put a hand on hers. “Better not to know everything, little one. With these—” he waved his other hand over the letters—“you know enough.”

Little one? How
could
he call her that, especially in front of Edward?

* * *

Edward watched the merchant behind the counter wrap a hefty fish in various layers of newspapers, precious smuggled ones neatly concealed within pages of the readily available German-run
La Belgique
. One simple word set apart the legal paper from the one Edward worked for:
La Libre Belgique
. One paper inspired and approved by the Germans, the other uncensored and worth risking his life for.
Libre.
Free. Dedicated to the day Belgium would be free again.

With a glance rather than money exchanged between customer and fishmonger, Edward made his way out the door. A little bell jingled his exit.