Whisper on the Wind (31 page)

“But?”

He looked back at her. “But I haven’t wanted to go. I haven’t wanted to leave here. You.”

They were words she wanted to hear, but she squashed the attempt her heart made to fly. “Then that is all the more reason for you to go.”

She stood, leaving the breakfast uneaten. He stood as well, and at first she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“I think it wise that we don’t allow ourselves to be alone anymore, Max. I know that we’re only friends, but there’s been a sort of intimacy about our friendship that no longer seems appropriate.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It was all my own foolishness. I thought—I thought that I could be your friend and nothing more. But I was wrong. It’s I who’s sorry, Genny. And I am. Profoundly so.”

She could think of nothing else to say, and so she backed away from the table, feeling the chair behind her. Awkwardly she stepped around it, each movement so tense she thought her bones might crack from being put to use in such a state. Somehow she made it to the door.

“Will you go out today, Max? Please? Away from here, away from this room? To the hospital, perhaps? Or . . . elsewhere?”

“Yes, Genny, I’ll go.”

29

The slave gangs will arrive here in Brussels, have no doubt. And to think the world once thought all of Europe so civilized.

La Libre Belgique

“Have you tried using the rice flour they’re making these days? It’s closer to white, at least.”

“Ah, but the taste! We are known for excellence, for the lightness of our pastry, the flakiness of each layer.” Pierrette shook her head in disgust. “We must not form our precious little tarts into tasteless lumps.”

Isa laughed, enjoying the exchange between Clara and Pierrette. It was the first time in two weeks that she’d felt herself again, having been muddled by a haze of confusion. Edward loved her, but couldn’t. He loved her. But didn’t. He loved her and perhaps loved Rosalie, too, but not either one enough to conquer whatever ghosts he carried with him from the camp. Isa hadn’t even told Genny because Genny seemed in a world of her own lately too.

Edward had been to the house only once, and that was to work the press. He hadn’t directed a personal word her way, not even a hello or good-bye. And she waited, hoping all he needed was time to realize their love was real and vital.

Isa had found Pierrette’s company a pleasant diversion, while Genny was once again reclusive.

“You did love your work, didn’t you?” Isa asked now.

“But of course! Every artist does.”

Clara, still at the sink, tilted her head to one side. “Artist? I thought you were a baker, same as your husband.”

“Baker! Bah, what sort of term is that to describe fifty-two variations of pastry? And my cakes! Oh, if I but had the right ingredients, Clara, I could show you what an artist I am.”

“You are certainly right about the rice. Here we are, nearly starving, and they send us something like that. Ach, it’s hard to get down.”

Pierrette nodded. “Yes, they should take pity on us.”

“It’s been hard for everyone, being unable to work,” Isa said. “How is your husband?”

Her blue eyes sparkled. “It’s why I came today! To tell you my good news—that my dear Jean-Luc was acquitted of the phony charges against him. He was let go only yesterday—think of that, after so long in those awful cells awaiting freedom.”

“Two months! And that dreadful food.”

“Oh, please, do not remind me!”

The ringer at the front door sounded and Isa jumped. Would she ever forget the day soldiers had come to her door? But then, would the Germans ever use the ringer instead of the butt of their rifles?

Clara wiped her hands on a towel, then hurried from the room.

“Tell me, Isa,” Pierrette said, “what you’ve been doing since you were freed. Since we lost our shop, we’ve struggled to get through the days. Boredom is not easy, is it?”

“No. But I’m learning to sew lace, and I have Clara and my dearest friend here with me, so the days aren’t so long.”

“Ah, yes, Madame Kirkland. She is English, yes?”

“Well . . . yes, but she’s lived here in Belgium more than ten years.”

“And the Germans, they have left her alone anyway?”

“Why shouldn’t they? She’s done nothing wrong—even though they killed her husband.”

“So she is a victim of them too. Those Germans. How I hate them!”

Just then Clara rejoined them, and Isa asked her who had been at the door.

“A sentry for the Major,” she said. “Something must be happening to him. It is the second message this morning already!”

* * *

Max ran the
Passierschein
between his thumb and forefinger, refolding it and placing it on top of his few belongings. Arrangements had taken nearly two weeks, but a driver from the Kommandantur would come for him in a few hours, bringing an army-issue duffel bag to hold his belongings. Max would soon be transported to the train and on to Germany.

He looked around the room. He would leave it as he found it, with the single exception of the wear on the Bible that had been in perfect condition some months earlier. He would have liked to take it because it held much meaning for him, and obviously its former owner had no use for it. But he would find one of his own. Perhaps at the abbey.

Thoughts of his destination inevitably led to thoughts of his wife, which by contrast led to thoughts of Genny. If Max had learned anything by now, it was an ability to denounce personal desires for a greater goal. By sheer discipline of mind he concentrated on his duty, and that, coupled with prayer, brought him some measure of peace. Certainly he’d had none of that while spending so many waking hours wishing he were free to devote himself to Genny.

He sat next to his things. Silence again, something he’d forgotten during the days he’d spent with her. He would have to say good-bye to her soon, not at all certain his discipline of mind would be enough to get him through.

* * *

Genny read the first line of her book three times before absorbing its meaning. She should be grateful that Isa’s home offered so many books from which to choose; reading had always been a favorite way to pass the time.

She’d been reading in the parlor because she could still perform the job Edward and Isa needed her to do: make sure the Major was well away from the kitchen or pantry. But Genny couldn’t deny, if she was to be honest with herself, that she’d far preferred talking, playing games, sharing music, and generally
being with
Max to pass those hours.

Just then she heard noise at the front door, followed quickly by the ringer. This time Genny went to see who it was before Clara even made it out of the kitchen.

She opened the door to a stocky sentry. “I am here to collect Major von Bürkel.”

“Collect?” She noticed the folded field gray duffel bag beneath his arm.

“Collect.”

From behind her, Genny heard Clara’s approach. “Will you tell the Major there is someone here for him?”

The sentry moved inside, sidestepping Genny. “I will follow.”

Genny watched the two go up the stairs, wishing she had the right to go too.

She didn’t bother returning to her book, knowing any attempt at reading was futile, at least until she knew the details of why Max was being “collected.” She’d thought—hoped—the German army had refused his request to return home, since he spent so many of his days at the Kommandantur or sanitariums with recuperating patients.

Barely five minutes later she heard movement from the top of the stairs. Hurriedly she took her seat, picking up the book but not seeing a word.

She saw Max first. He looked toward the butler’s hall, then toward the parlor, where his eyes rested on hers. He was dressed in a dark greatcoat, gloved, holding his shiny steel helmet under his arm. She stood and he approached after giving orders to the sentry to take his bag and wait outside. Clara closed the door behind the sentry, then looked at the Major as if ready to open it again for him. But when she looked in the direction Max stared, she left altogether.

Genny met Max in the center of the parlor. The lamp she’d used to read by only dimly lit a corner of the room. The shuttered windows of the parlor let in no light at all.

“I’m taking your advice and returning home at last.” He offered a half smile.

She nodded, unable to speak. Unable, too, to stop looking at him, though she wished she could turn away in case he saw her wildly erratic breathing.

“I would have told you my travel was approved,” he went on, “but word came to me only this morning. I hope . . .”

She waited for him to finish.

He started again. “Perhaps this seems abrupt since we’ve barely spoken these last days. I don’t mean it to be.”

She nodded again, silently calling herself a fool for being so speechless.

At last he took a step closer and with his free hand reached for one of hers. “Will you let me stand here blathering like a fool, Genny? Won’t you even say good-bye?”

She tore her gaze from his to look at his hand, so strong, so much larger than hers as it tenderly held her own. “Good-bye,” she whispered, so quietly she could barely hear her own voice. She dared not speak any louder and give away the tremble she knew he would detect.

She felt him take a breath as if to speak again, but no words came. He let go of her hand and turned to walk toward the hall.

“Max,” she said, unsure she should say anything but unable to hold back.

He stopped immediately, facing her again. But he didn’t step any closer.

She bit back the words she wanted to say—how she would miss him and wished he weren’t going, how she would think of him while wishing he were still here. But she refused to feed this monster between them. Instead, she offered a quick prayer even as words began leaving her mouth.

“Love her, Max. Your Käethe. I’ve heard it said that sometimes the feeling follows the action. You have the discipline for the action; I know that.”

He smiled, but she thought it was a rather sad smile. “Yes, discipline I have. That’s true.” He paused, started to turn away again, then looked at her with a larger smile, one that held the admiration she’d seen on his face so many times before. “Good-bye then, Genny.”

“Good-bye, Max.”

And then she watched him leave.

30

Once again the Germans have proven how shallow, how utterly worthless, their promises are. More men are being seized and sent to Germany—in cattle cars of all things. Even men holding cards allotted them by the CRB are being deported, and such men were once “promised” to be exempt from the seizures.

La Libre Belgique

Edward worked on the latest issue of
La Libre Belgique
, waiting for Isa to return to the room and finish typesetting the final page. They’d barely spoken since that day at the flat; he could tell she was waiting for him to say something. How was it that he felt so much yet could express so little? Could he admit his dreams of a future with her turned to nightmares under the sure knowledge that he didn’t deserve any of this—her, happiness, life?

And so he kept silent because he couldn’t understand what he felt and even less how to share it all with her.

Upon learning the Major had returned to Germany, Edward had expected his mother to be relieved, with one less enemy, especially one lurking in the house. Except she hardly looked happy at all.

And in the last few days a new nuisance had arisen.

“Is she still up there?” Edward asked Isa when she pushed open the door.

“I went out the front door on my ‘errand’ while Genny sat with her in the parlor so I could reenter the kitchen and come back down here.”

“You shouldn’t have taken the risk while she’s still here.”

“I don’t know when she’s leaving. It’s getting late and we still have so much to do.”

“I’m working on it,” Edward said.

“And it’ll take twice as long for you alone,” she said. “All the depots are set up for noon tomorrow for this next issue. It must be done.”

She didn’t need to tell him that. She was every bit as conscientious about work as Edward himself. But he didn’t like anyone taking risks—most especially Isa. Having Pierrette Guillamay around made everything a risk.

“I know you don’t like her, Edward, but—”

“I never said I didn’t like her.”

“You don’t trust her.”

Edward glanced at Isa. “I trust few people these days.”

“That’s because you don’t know her. She’s a friend.”

He shrugged. That didn’t make any difference.

“I wish you would give her a chance. I think she might be of some help.”

“Recruiting her for
La Libre Belgique
?”

“No. It’s just that she’s so bored since her shop closed. And she seems patriotic.”

“That may be true. But more than a few people have been arrested for trusting the wrong person.”

If she’d argued, he might have argued back, but she tended to her work again instead. A benefit of his confession of love? They hadn’t argued since that day.

He left the press and stood before her. “I admire your capacity to believe the best in people. And I trust your judgment. Perhaps, if there is a way to check into Pierrette’s past, we can do as you say. Invite her help.”

She gave him one of those smiles he dreamed of, the one that said she admired him, his decisions, and everything he did to protect her.

It was all he could do not to take her into his arms.

* * *

Isa flipped her braid out of her way. Typesetting was laborious work, calling for patience and concentration, but she’d finished some time ago and Edward had the press running full steam.

Sometimes she believed she’d dreamed what happened in the flat. But he’d told her he loved her. She’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back. All regular components in the long-held romance of her imagination.

And yet the results had been far from a dream come true. Since then they’d only worked harder, with an increased determination to make sure the paper was distributed. Safely, securely. And as regularly as possible.

One thing was certain: doing that demanded all the energy she had to give. And lately, that was considerable.