A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  Her throat went tight. “You specifically, or refugees from the countryside in general?”

  “Me. My father, you see . . . Before his death, he was doing important work. Work the Germans wanted. I daresay they did not realize they had burned it all in Louvain, but they know I am his son. One of the soldiers recognized me as I was making my way to our house. Tried to detain me, so . . . I ran. And was shot.”

  It aligned with what Mr. V had told her of this family—the father, the work. But why in the world would he admit it all to her? “Did they think you were involved in this work?” Or that you had bits of it on your person?

  Lukas shook his head. “I cannot say. It would be foolish to think so—I am a musician, not a mathematician as he was. They presumably thought I knew where he had stored it all. Which I do—in the house they burned to the ground. It is all gone now, but the Germans . . . they would not have listened had I told them that. They seemed to think every Belgian a spy or a franc-tireur or . . .” He shook his head again.

  She might as well fish for whatever she could. “What was he working on? Your father, I mean.”

  He flicked a gaze down at her, one that shone with intelligence that he quickly covered with a charming grin. “I could not tell you if I wanted to, mon amour. I am a musician, not a mathematician. And it was all mathematics.”

  So then, he had some sense when it came to baring his soul to strangers. Good for him, if bad for her. She returned the grin. “Did you just call me an idiot? I ought to storm away.”

  His laugh brought the gaze of every female pedestrian their way.

  Blast, but it would be hard to blend into the shadows if she spent any more time in his company.

  Eight

  Margot smiled into her friend’s giggle and tried to determine what, exactly, was so funny about Claudette’s older sister saying what she had to a German officer. It had been stupid, in Margot’s opinion, to flirt with him. Risky.

  But she wouldn’t say so. Certainly not today, the first time she’d seen her friend in a month. Their mothers had bumped into each other yesterday, and Maman had whispered where they were staying and the name they were using. She wouldn’t have trusted most people with such information—but Claudette’s father had worked with Papa.

  Claudette’s father had been arrested.

  They understood the need for discretion.

  And now here they were, in Madame Dumont’s upstairs parlor, their mothers speaking in whispers on the sofa, knitting needles clacking, while Claudette giggled and Margot pretended to understand why, when really she was looking out the window.

  The afternoon was waning. He would be back soon. And she hadn’t even had the chance to work on her theorem today, what with their visitors.

  Not that she wasn’t glad to see Claudette again.

  Her friend sighed much like their mothers were wont to do. “Have you heard a word I said?”

  Margot blinked and focused her gaze on Claudette rather than the windows. She looked as she always had—deep brown curls pulled back in a sky-blue ribbon, flounces on her dress, a smile hovering about her lips.

  Except for her eyes. Her eyes weren’t the same carefree brown they’d been before. They were shadowed now. Hard. They knew what it was to lose a father, even if she had hope of getting hers back someday.

  It wasn’t something Margot had wanted to share with her friend. “Of course I have. Do you want me to recite it all back to you?”

  “Non! You always make me sound so ridiculous when you do that.” She giggled again, but this time Margot heard the strain in it. The false note. And then it died away altogether, and she scooted closer to where Margot sat on the window seat. Focused her gaze out the window. “How many bricks are in that house across the street? The red one?”

  A game they had been playing for years. Usually it made her grin. Today . . . it made her want to. Almost. “Five thousand two hundred twenty-six.”

  “Really?” Claudette pursed her lips. “I thought for sure it was five thousand two hundred twenty-eight. Are you sure you factored in the chimneys correctly?”

  Margot rolled her eyes. And let silence speak for a beat, two, before she said, “Are you frightened for him?” She kept her voice at the barest whisper, so their mothers didn’t hear.

  Claudette focused still on that redbrick house, but her fingers worried the lace edge on her skirt. “They’re sending him to Germany. They’ll try to make him work for them.”

  “He won’t.” She found her friend’s fingers, covered them with her own. There weren’t many people in the world she would touch willingly, but Claudette she had known since she was a baby. She was more sister than friend.

  Her attempt at comfort brought tears up to pool in Claudette’s eyes. “But what will they do to him if he doesn’t? I don’t want my papa to die, Margot.”

  This was why she hated conversation. What could she possibly say to such a thing to make it better? There was nothing, no comfort to offer. Claude Archambault would either help the Germans and betray his country, or he wouldn’t and they would kill him for it. A traitor or a ghost—neither was what anyone would want for a father.

  Margot squeezed her hand again and gave up on words.

  Their mothers rose from the sofa, goodbye in their postures. They embraced, kissed each other’s cheeks, and were making promises already to visit again next week.

  “You can come to us next time, Sophie,” Madame Archambault said, gripping Maman’s hands.

  Maman shook her head. “I am sorry, Marie—I do not dare. It is too near our house, and they will be looking for us there. This is risk enough.”

  Claudette’s mother sighed. “You are right, of course. But . . . do you really think you will be able to keep your name secret for long? Someone will recognize you on the street and call out a greeting. And the wrong German ears will hear it.”

  Now Claudette turned her hand under Margot’s so she was squeezing her fingers.

  Maman lifted her chin, though the show of strength didn’t quell the trembling in her lips. “We will do what we can, while we can. Until Lukas comes for us.”

  Madame Archambault nodded, but her mouth was a tight, straight line, and doubt filled her dark eyes. She didn’t say that Lukas was gone, dead, shot by the Germans and never to return for them. Not with words did she say it. But with her eyes she did.

  “He is not dead.” Margot whispered it because she must. Must push it out into the room to counteract the doubt.

  “He is not dead.” Claudette’s echo was just a whisper too. But she too spoke it. And then she stood and smoothed out her skirt. “I will see you next week, Margot Dumont.”

  “Oui. Until then, know I pray for your papa. And for you.” She said a prayer now, in the way that made her feel closest to her God, who so perfectly ordered the universe. Two, four, nine, sixteen, twenty-five, thirty-six, forty-nine . . .

  Madame Dumont came in as their guests were leaving, giving them her wrinkled smiles and well-wishes, promises to pray. Once they were gone, the old lady settled in her favorite chair by the unlit fireplace, her gaze focusing on Margot. Her smile looked genuine. “It is a blessing to me to have you two here. Bringing laughter and friends into this house again.”

  Maman patted the Madame’s shoulder. “It is a far greater blessing to us, Mère Dumont. Without you . . .”

  Margot added a small smile to the conversation but could manage no more. Her gaze went back out the window, where their friends were exiting the house and making their way quickly down the street.

  It was good of the lady to protect them like this, yes. And no great difficulty to call her Grand-mère and show her affection and respect when Gottlieb was around. But Margot wanted her own life.

  A group of soldiers strode by on the street below their window. Proof that no one had their own life just now. Not the ones they used to know.

  Another pair of soldiers came into view after the first group had disappeared. One was Gottlieb—and he carried
a box.

  “He is coming.” Margot frowned out the window, her eyes on that box. She didn’t know what could be in it, but it made her stomach cramp. It was something new—and these days something new always meant something bad.

  The second soldier kept walking when Gottlieb peeled off.

  Behind her, Maman and Madame Dumont turned their conversation to when the weather might cool and how much food was left in the shops. Margot listened to the door open and then shut. To Gottlieb’s footsteps. Would they turn into his room?

  No. They were on the stairs, sounding light and quick. Happy.

  A happy Gottlieb was surely bad news for the rest of them.

  A few moments later he was striding into the parlor, sounding happy too as he wished them all a good afternoon. There came then the sound of something sliding onto the table.

  Margot finally looked his way, saw that box. He was opening it, a smile on his lips.

  “I have brought you a surprise. Something to entertain us all as the days grow shorter and autumn turns to winter.”

  The cramps squeezed tighter. How could he speak so glibly about being here so long? Months? Whole seasons?

  He drew out two wooden bowls fitted with lids and then a square of wood about a foot wide. It looked almost like a chessboard, except that the squares painted upon the top were only outlines, none of them colored. And where some of the lines intersected, there were little dots painted as well.

  Maman kept on knitting. “A game?”

  “Ja. It is called Go. From the Han Chinese empire, but it has become quite popular in Germany.” He took the lids off the bowls, revealing black stones in one, white in the other. “It is a strategy game.”

  Margot turned fully to face the room.

  Maman’s needles clacked together. “I have never enjoyed such pastimes. Perhaps Mère will play with you.”

  Madame Dumont chuckled. No doubt because they all knew Gottlieb didn’t want more of her company. “These old eyes could not even see the board. Perhaps young Margot could learn it.”

  Dual strings pulled taut within her. The one insisting she refuse out of principle, because why would she want to be so near him for so long? The other drawn like a moth to the flame of that game board. What were its rules? Its aims?

  “No.” Maman’s voice was nearly too quick, too alarmed. “Margot has enough to fill her time. Come, mon chouchou. This scarf will not knit itself.”

  Gottlieb tossed the second lid to the table—a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Someone will play with me. I insist.”

  Silence met his demand. Margot dug her fingers into the plush cushion of the window seat. Of course Maman would forbid her from playing. Of course. But . . .

  “Fräulein.” Gottlieb leveled a finger at her and then pointed at one of the chairs at the table. “You will learn. Call it part of your education, since you have not gone back to school.”

  School was hardly an option here—and she had already learned everything the lower schools could teach her anyway. She had been enrolled in classes at Papa’s university in Louvain. Before.

  She looked to her mother.

  Lips pressed tight, Maman was obviously weighing the options. After a moment, she nodded. But she needn’t speak for Margot to hear the warning she’d be issuing.

  She could play—but she couldn’t play well.

  Slowly enough to demonstrate a reluctance she only half felt, Margot stood and moved to the table. Took a seat.

  Gottlieb tossed the box to the floor and sat too, with a smile. “There now. You will enjoy this.”

  She positioned her chair and regarded the board. Nineteen squares in each direction. “Is it like chess?”

  “The rules are simpler but the play more complex.” He slid the bowl of black stones over to her. “Black plays first, so the beginner has that honor. The object is to surround the most territory with your stones, by placing them on the points of intersection on the grid. You cannot move them once placed. But your opponent can seize your stone by surrounding it with his own.”

  Simple, yes. But there would be virtually endless possibilities. Her mind raced, and that knot in her stomach eased. “When does the game end?”

  “When one of the players decides to make no more moves. It can last for hours or days or weeks.” He smiled, baring white teeth that would likely not hesitate to snap at her. “It will take you some time to get the feel for it, but I think you will like it. You are a clever girl.”

  Clever she was allowed to be, to an extent. But she could feel her mother’s gaze drilling into her back. More than clever she must be careful to avoid.

  Just another challenge to enjoy. She would play two games, that was all—one in her head, with the moves she would make if she were playing with Papa or Lukas. Another on the board with him.

  She reached into the bowl and plucked out one of the smooth black stones. It hardly even mattered that she would have to lose, at least at first, and be sure never to win by much. She would get to think.

  It was more than she had expected today.

  Willa slid into the study that was rarely used, the yellow paper crumpled in her hand and her gaze casting over her shoulder. None of the ladies would purposely eavesdrop, she was sure. But any one of them could happen by, and while she may have obtained permission to use the telephone, that didn’t mean she wanted them to overhear.

  But then, they were the least of her concerns. Anyone could overhear a phone conversation. The operators, to be sure. And anyone else on the party line. Which made her wonder why the telegram in her hand had instructed her to use one.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to place the call and guard her tongue while doing so.

  Still. As she picked up the receiver on the candlestick telephone, something was bothering her. Not the call. Not the telegram. Something to do with the reason for it.

  She’d left again the moment De Wilde delivered her home. Rounded the corner to the nearest telegraph office. Her message to Barclay had been simple: Cor followed me.

  His message back, delivered just twenty minutes ago, had been no longer. Ring Hammersmith-1528 at 7.

  She gave the operator the number in a calm voice, but it was a lie. Too many questions warred within her. Were telephones really a wise way of communicating? Why would Barclay have instructed her to use one? And where in the world was Hammersmith-1528? It wasn’t their end of London.

  Why, how, had Cor Akkerman followed her here? And what the devil could she do about it?

  It wasn’t a moment before a cheery “Hello!” sounded across the miles, tinny and half-covered with static. Willa gripped the telephone and sank into the chair behind the desk. “Retta? Is that you?”

  “Oh, do relax, Barclay, I’ll only keep her a moment!” This was barely audible, obviously not aimed into the receiver. Then, “I just wanted to say hello. I’ve never used one of these things.”

  “Neither have I.” Willa traced a finger along the edge of the desk. “Where are you?”

  Retta’s bark of laughter came over the line with no trouble. “Where do you think? We’re at Rosie’s new place.”

  Of course—who else did they know with any claim to a place in Hammersmith? But it was beyond comprehension that her sister suddenly had two new houses, in both London and Cornwall. “Why? Did they come back already?”

  “Of course not. But they offered us the use of the London house while they’re all in the west country, and it just made sense. There were only the four of us here so long as you’re gone, so we don’t need three flats.”

  So they’d let the flats go? Willa’s fingernails dug into the wood of the desk. It wasn’t unusual for them to move about, but they usually did only in case of emergency. Not just convenience. And never before had Willa not been part of the decision-making process.

  “Hey! I hadn’t finished!” Retta’s voice was even more distant now.

  Then Barclay’s filled the line. “I know what you’re thinking, but stop. You know
very well this was reasonable—or you will, once you get over your pique at not being involved in the decision. We would have been stupid not to accept this offer. Free housing, Will.”

  Sometimes it was annoying to be known so well. “It’s awfully far from Pauly’s.”

  “But the rent we’re saving more than makes up for the price of a tube ticket. Now—tell me about this puppy that followed you home.”

  Willa rested her forehead on her hand and sighed into the mouthpiece. Every time she closed her eyes, she still saw him, and tried to see something she’d missed before. Some glint in his eye or tell in the quirk of his mouth. “I don’t know how he did.” Which was terrifying, but she daren’t say that over the phone lines.

  Barclay’s sigh gusted over hers. “Ellie ran back to your old flat when we got your wire. The other mutt’s still there. Landlady thought Cor was just seeking what he could in other parts of London.”

  The truth, or was Cor’s cousin just covering for him? He could be involved. They shouldn’t assume he wasn’t. “What do I do? Should we contact Mr. V?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Barclay had a way of saying that—it had been grating on her and Rosie since they met him. Always so superior, and so confident that he was right. Made worse by the fact that he usually was. “We’ll never work for him again if we let him know you’re taking in stray dogs.”

  “I’m not taking him in.” But he was right, blast him. She squeezed the bridge of her nose. Mr. V knew too much about them already. And they knew far too little of him, except that he paid well and had, occasionally at least, some tie to the government.

  Which was every bit as terrifying as Cor following her here. More. They’d tried all their lives to avoid the authorities—how had they come to be working for them, however indirectly? And what would he do if they failed him?

  Lack of future work would be the least of their concerns. He could arrest them. Destroy them. Rip the family apart.

  No. “So what do I do?”

  “Did you pet the pup? Or just see him across the street?”