A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  Gottlieb frowned. Rather, he had been frowning already and didn’t stop. “What surprise?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid Maman would turn the corner. “It is her birthday on Wednesday. I thought . . . I have no gift for her. But I found a coin.” She had, the day she’d gone for bread. It was still in her pocket, though it would buy next to nothing these days. A ribbon, perhaps. In black and red and yellow, for Belgium. They couldn’t fly the flag anymore, but people were wearing the colors anywhere they could.

  The frown not only eased, it turned into a smile. “She has said nothing.”

  “Well, of course not. It is hardly a year to celebrate.”

  Gottlieb motioned her to turn around again and jogged to catch up. “One should always celebrate the life of those one cares about though. You are a good girl, Margot, to remember the day for her.”

  “You won’t tell her, then?”

  “Of course not. And I will do better than that—I will see you safely to the shops and back.”

  Nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six . . . No, not sufficient at all. Perhaps the powers of three would do a better job.

  “What would she like, do you think? A book? Poetry, perhaps? Or—I know. Chocolate. It has probably been months since she has had chocolate, ja? I know where we can get some.”

  Margot told her mouth not to water at the thought. “I only have one franc.”

  He sent her a strange look. Chiding but warm. Like Maman gave her. “Pick out what you like for your mother, spatz. I will make sure it is paid for.”

  She scowled. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . like you’re a father indulging his daughter.”

  She hadn’t meant to say it. And doubly wished she hadn’t when he dragged in a long breath and held it for a full five seconds before letting it out.

  “Forgive me, Margot. I do not mean to make you uncomfortable. But you do remind me a bit of my daughter, when she was your age. Only a bit, mind you—I never could convince her to play Go with me.”

  Her feet came to a halt and wouldn’t be convinced to budge again.

  He turned when he realized she’d stopped, blond brows arched. “What?”

  “You have a daughter?”

  The brows remained raised. “Why is this surprising? Do you think a man of my age has never married, has no family?”

  “But . . .” But if he had a family of his own, why did he chase after Maman? Follow her with his eyes all the time? Why had he never mentioned them?

  She had a few suspicions, though they were all in the category of things that Lukas insisted she had no business knowing about.

  Given the darkening of Gottlieb’s countenance, he may well have the same opinion of that knowledge. “I see. You think me . . . She is dead—my wife. Eight years ago. My daughter is grown and has moved to America with her husband. I have not seen her for five years. My son did not live to his sixteenth birthday. What would I have said to you about them?”

  Nothing. What could he? She looked away. First, for perhaps the first time with him. “I am sorry.” Because it changed everything, somehow. Realizing he wasn’t just a generalleutnant. Not even just a man. He was a father. Someone who looked at her and saw his own little girl, once upon a time, not just someone out to make her life miserable.

  He sighed. “I am not a fool. I know your mother mourns your father still. And would never look at a German officer occupying her home as anything but that. But is it so wrong of me to want to see her happy on her birthday?”

  “Of course not,” she said. Why do you have that photograph? she wanted to say. Why have you done nothing about it?

  Sentiment? He didn’t seem the kind to be swayed by it. Or hadn’t, when he’d just been Generalleutnant Wolfgang Gottlieb instead of someone’s papa.

  She started forward again. “Thank you. For walking with me.” She would have to find a way to escape him, of course. But she could be glad of the company for now.

  “It is my pleasure.” He clasped his hands behind his back, which was as straight and unmoving as a steel rod. But at least he didn’t march without bending his knees. She couldn’t have borne it if he did that. “But I will reiterate my advice of last week—it is not safe for you to be out here alone. And will soon be even less so.” He glanced around, as if he needed to check and make sure no one was listening. Leaned down and pitched his voice low. “I have it on good authority that our governor-general will be soon sent to Turkey—replaced by General von Bissing.”

  She’d never heard the name before, but the way he said it . . . “Who is that?”

  Distaste curled Gottlieb’s lip. “I know you think I am arrogant. But von Bissing has rightly been called ‘the only German general who can strut while sitting down.’ He will be a cruel overseer, spatz.”

  Numbers beat against her skull like bullets. A warning. “When?”

  “A few weeks, perhaps. A month at the outside.” He straightened again, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I intend to leave Brussels before he arrives. Von Bissing and I have never got along, but I have made it worse by trying to inject a bit of reason in the High Command’s operations here. My friends in Berlin tell me I have jeopardized my career with such words, and von Bissing will be all too happy to destroy it entirely if I am directly under his command.”

  “So you will just leave?” Ten minutes ago, it would have made her want to dance. But no jubilation filled her. Not given those other words he’d said.

  Was it her imagination or did his shoulders sag a degree? “I see little choice.”

  “And you . . . you have really been speaking reason to them?”

  A breath of laughter escaped his lips and made a little puff of white in the air. “How many times must I tell you that I am not the monster you would make me, Margot?”

  “Twenty-three. Apparently.” She pulled her coat a little tighter. “Will it be better for you somewhere else?”

  He shrugged and glanced down at her again, his eyes as serious and sober as they were when he looked at Maman, as if Margot were another adult. “Away from von Bissing will be a good thing. And worry not for me, my young friend. An enterprising man can always find a way to endear himself again to the High Command.”

  Her chest banded again. “How?”

  He tried on a smile, but rather than looking flip and light, it looked pained. “I will simply await the right opportunity. Then . . . who knows? Take credit for the capture of a spy, or rooting out a double agent. That would prove my loyalty adequately.”

  The band went so tight she could scarcely breathe. That, then, was why he hadn’t yet turned them in. He was waiting for the right moment, so it could secure him the most favor.

  But it would pain him, at least. Clearly. He didn’t want to hurt them, she was sure of that now. So she could still like him just a little, because he had gotten himself into this by speaking reason, and he was someone’s papa, and he looked at her as though she was perfectly capable of understanding his dilemma. She could like him a little, and she could respect him. And she could know that he’d understand when they fled. He understood necessity.

  They walked in silence for two blocks, Gottlieb matching his long stride to her shorter one. She caught a few sympathetic looks from people they passed, neighbors who no doubt thought her in some kind of trouble. She did her best to look recalcitrant. Or at least sullen.

  At last, the shops came into view.

  Gottlieb cleared his throat. “Margot—can I ask you a favor?”

  “What?”

  “This evening, I would like to start a new game of Go. Do you think you could bring yourself to play me as you want to, instead of holding back so that I think you stupider than you are?”

  Three, nine, twenty-seven, eighty-one . . . It was no use. She wanted to scream. And she wanted to smile. She settled for saying, “On one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell my mother.”


  He laughed and sounded like somebody’s papa. “It is a deal. Now—where to first?”

  She didn’t know Brussels nearly as well as she did Louvain. But she’d come down this street with Papa a year ago and had counted the streets and cross streets they’d passed. He’d pointed out where all his friends lived and worked. Perhaps knowing, somehow, that she would need the knowledge someday.

  The Allard press was five streets over—but the Allard home was only two away. And there was a bookstore on that side of this street. She nodded toward it. “A book. One that I can borrow from her.”

  He chuckled. “Good job, spatz. That sounded nearly like a normal child.”

  A bell jangled over the door when they entered, and Margot had to take a moment to close her eyes and breathe it in. Paper. Ink. Leather. Home.

  “You are going to be here a while. I can see it already.”

  She grinned. She couldn’t help it. “If you have other things to do, you can simply call back here in an hour. I’ll have something for Maman by then. I promise.”

  He looked about to object, despite the prayers she was sending heavenward. But he glanced outside and nodded. “One hour. Do not start back without me—it is not safe.”

  “One hour. And I promise.” She held her spot until he walked back out. And then dashed over to the proprietor behind the counter, who had been watching the exchange unabashedly. She leaned closer. “Have you a back door?”

  The man asked no questions. He wouldn’t need to—he had seen Gottlieb’s uniform. He merely motioned her to follow him past the shelves, down a tight hallway, and through an office. The door was within it. “I will leave it open for you. And have a few books ready for you. For your mother?”

  “That I could enjoy as well.”

  He nodded. “A novel. I have just the thing. Run along.”

  She would thank him later—she hadn’t the time now. All her focus had to go toward checking each alley before she ran across it, to make sure Gottlieb wasn’t on the other side. Remembering how many streets she needed to cover, when to cross, determine where crossing put her. And pray, with every step, that Jerome Allard still lived where he had a year ago.

  Maman was always after her to get up and move about, especially before the invasion. Go outside and play, Margot, she had said in years past. Take some exercise before your muscles turn to mush.

  Just now, she wished she had listened more. Within a block, she was short of breath and battling a stitch in her side. Losing the battle. But there were the eaves she was looking for, on the house Papa had pointed out.

  No German soldiers were within sight, praise be to God. She hurried up the steps and rang. Let it be the Allards. Please, Lord, let it be the Allards.

  A youngish woman answered. Unfamiliar, but not a servant. She wore a fine grey day dress and had well-styled hair. Her eyes went wide upon spotting a wheezing girl on her stoop. “How can I help you, young lady?”

  Margot sucked in a breath. “Is this . . . Monsieur Allard’s house . . . still?”

  The woman’s eyes returned to their normal size—and scanned the street behind Margot. “Yes. Yes, come in. Quickly. I won’t ask why you need him. It is always the same.”

  Margot stepped inside so the woman could close the door and then followed her through a tidy entryway and into a kitchen.

  “This way,” the woman said, opening a door to stairs and leading the way down them. “He is at the press.”

  Tinkering on it, apparently. It certainly wasn’t running. The only sounds coming from the ancient thing were the clang of a tool against heavy iron.

  Margot’s heart sank. This thing didn’t have the look of something that they ran regularly. “Monsieur Allard?”

  The woman put a hand on her shoulder. “Jerome, come out. You have a guest.”

  “Coming. Coming.” He said the words. But no action followed them to prove them true.

  The woman patted her shoulder. “He will emerge eventually. If you will excuse me a moment, I must check on the baby.”

  “Of course. I can wait.” Margot chose a spot that looked as though it couldn’t be in the way when he finally emerged and knotted her fingers together. She could wait up to ten minutes. That would still give her plenty of time to talk to him and run back to the bookshop.

  He emerged in two, wiping his hands on a cloth dark with oil. A smudge of it decorated his cheek, too, but it couldn’t disguise the fact that he was young. Much younger than she’d expected, closer to Lukas’s age than Papa’s. Hadn’t the other Monsieur Allard been much older? And they were brothers, she was sure of it.

  This Monsieur Allard gave her a smile. “Wait a moment. I know that gaze—you are Professor De Wilde’s daughter, aren’t you? You looked at me exactly that way when you were only four years old.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t remember meeting you.”

  “Well . . . you were only four.”

  “Why should that matter?” Perhaps it had been in a crowd.

  He laughed. “Yes, that is the mind that goes with those eyes. I suppose I should not be surprised you have found me. What is it I can do for you, mademoiselle?”

  She sent a dubious glance at the press. “Is it running? Are you producing a paper?”

  Allard sighed. “It runs. And it doesn’t run. I produce what I can while it is being merciful, and I pretend that I have never run an old heap of junk like this in my life when in public.”

  “Is it being merciful now?” The grease stains said otherwise.

  But the man smiled. “It will be tonight, when it is safe for it to be. Have you news for me to include?”

  She pressed her lips together. “If I give you a message, will you include it exactly as I indicate? And will the papers make their way to Wales?”

  “Wales?” Allard tossed the rag onto a table as depressing as the machine. “I cannot say, little one. I know they make it to my brother in London. Beyond that . . .”

  “It will do.” It would have to. “But the message?”

  This time his smile was sad and old. “Trying to reach your brother? I just read that most of our musicians are in Wales, raising money to send home.”

  “Yes, I know where he is. I need him to know where I am.”

  “I will keep your message as you give it to me. You have my word.” He held out a hand.

  She stared at it for a moment. And then realized what he wanted. “Oh. I haven’t written it down yet. If I could borrow a pen and paper?”

  He set her up at the haggard table and made no pretense of giving her privacy as she printed the words in clear, careful letters so he could read them with ease. He leaned onto the edge of the table. “Is it a code?”

  “A cypher.” She wished she had a more concise way of giving Lukas this information. It would take him half of forever to decode it bit by bit. But how else could she direct him to Madame Dumont’s house?

  “I thought you needed some sort of master device for those.”

  “A key.”

  “Right.” He leaned over. “Where is yours?”

  She sighed and looked up just long enough to give him a Do you mind? sort of look. “It is in my head.”

  He shook his and eased back. “How old are you, anyway? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

  “Two hundred and thirty. I look young for my age.”

  When he laughed at her joke, she decided she liked him, despite his nosiness. And when he didn’t ask her to explain the real meaning of the long paragraphs she’d written out and handed to him, she decided she liked him even more.

  He scanned over it, nodding. “It reads like real news about the king and his wife.”

  That was rather the point. “Could you print the same thing each time you put out an edition? It can be nested in a larger article that changes around it. So long as La Famille is somewhere in the headline.”

  Allard put the paper on the top of a stack of them. “Until you tell me to cease. You have my word.”

  “Thank
you.” She took a step toward the stairs, then stopped and turned. Fished the single franc from her pocket. “It’s all I have right now. You’ll say you don’t need it because you pity me and feel affection for my father, but I want you to have it. My father always said that things are only worth what we’re willing to pay for them. And this is worth everything to me.”

  He stood still for a moment. Then he reached out and took the franc.

  She would count him a friend for the rest of her days. “God bless you, Monsieur Allard.”

  “And you, Mademoiselle De Wilde.”

  She hurried back up and let herself quietly out of the house. She still had plenty of time to slip back into the bookstore.

  And she’d let Gottlieb pay for the novel. It would undoubtedly mean more to him than it did to her.

  Twenty-Two

  Willa listened for the click. Turned the knob. Slipped into the hotel room in what was becoming habit and slid the skeleton key back into her bag. She wasn’t exactly sure what she expected to find on a third search that she hadn’t on the first or second.

  But she’d spotted Cor Akkerman that afternoon, trailing Lukas and Jules and the other musicians as they went for rehearsal. He wasn’t going to vanish with his tail between his legs. He was going to cause her whatever trouble he could. So far as she could tell, he didn’t yet know about Mr. Brown, to try to work that angle, but he was too observant. He could well realize soon that the German was trying to hire her, and use it against her, if V didn’t arrest the agent soon.

  Her hands still hurt from where the wood had pierced them. Her soul still hurt far more.

  The pieces of the violin had been gone when she’d finally pulled herself out of bed the next morning at a ridiculously late hour. Gwen. She’d probably taken it to some luthier she knew and asked him if he could fix it.

  He’d no doubt taken one look at the collection of splinters and declared it beyond redemption.

  Her eyes burned as she shut the door to Lukas’s hotel room behind her without a sound.

  She’d begged off her lessons for the last three days, claiming to be unwell. It wasn’t a lie. Never in her life had she felt so miserable. He’d come to see her, of course, but she had claimed she wasn’t well enough to come down.