Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  It would be Edward’s job to get it to the printer.

  This was not the longest but was perhaps among the more important issues. The edition from a week ago might have been more vital, following so closely after the arrests, its existence enough to dim many smug German smiles. This second issue would be a needed boost to the morale of every Belgian who fretted over the upcoming trial, and that was just about everyone in Brussels. The paper had survived, no matter how many people they arrested.

  Edward handed the rolled sheets to Father Clemenceau while reaching under the table for a walking stick he used for just such an occasion. Turning it upside down and twirling off the tip, he tilted it toward the priest, who slid the papers neatly inside. Then Edward replaced the tip, reached for his suit coat and hat, and with a swift farewell was on his way to the printer Father Clemenceau had persuaded to run one more issue. The printer had not been easily convinced, and after this edition they must find someone else.

  Nothing new there.

  Edward walked down the street at a brisk though unhurried pace. He did nothing to call attention to himself, keeping his gaze straight ahead. It was three o’clock and even during peacetimes the streets would have been quiet, but now they were near desolate apart from soldiers.

  He would have liked to take the tram to shorten the distance to the printer’s but decided that would bring him too close to Germans. So he kept walking, using the enameled stick as though he’d done so a great many years, not because he needed help but because it was an appendage that showed the style of a successful businessman of the age Edward meant to portray.

  * * *

  Max von Bürkel sat, eyes closed, as strains of “O Day of Rest and Gladness” drifted from the hall, filling the room with melancholy. Somewhere close by, someone played the flute. He knew the words that accompanied the melody weren’t meant to bring sadness but rather comfort. Yet they brought him only pain. Both his sons were buried somewhere south of here, in France. The music, so long absent from Max’s life, brought them to mind with stinging clarity.

  He retrieved his crutch with some difficulty and hobbled to the door, opening it and letting the last notes strike him like invisible bullets.

  Just as he thought he might walk toward the sound, the melody ended and new music floated in.

  Another hymn. He could not hear “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” without thinking of his mother—“Ein’ Feste Burg,” as she knew this hymn. For a moment the pain eased as he remembered his mother. He’d lost her, too, but she had gone to a peaceful rest, eager to meet the God who created her.

  The memory of his mother faded, replaced again by his boys, and pain shot through him anew. He suddenly wished to join his wife, a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind since she’d left him upon word that their second son had been killed. He thought of her now, not because she would welcome his company or even wish to grieve with him. No, he wished he could be enveloped by the church as she’d been. At the very least, there were no decisions to be made where his wife now resided, no news with which to deal. One didn’t even have to talk, except perhaps to God. And everywhere she turned, she must be reminded that this was not all there was to life, that something else lay ahead. A place with God where, despite an egregious lack of training from their father, perhaps his boys had found a way after all. Certainly there was hope for that; a battlefield was just the place to find God.

  Max had found Him there.

  He’d been groomed to have allegiance first to God and then to family and country, but somehow it had gotten twisted through the years, with allegiance to the fatherland demanding the most, the best, the deepest in him. But now . . . his gaze fell upon the Bible that had come with this room.

  It was his only comfort these days.

  Max returned to his chair, leaving the door open, letting the music water his dehydrated spirit.

  * * *

  Genny rounded the upstairs hallway and headed toward Isa’s room. So, she had not imagined it. The music came not from the music room but from Isa’s own bedroom.

  Genny stopped, savoring the sound filling the air. How sweet it was after so long a silence without any music to remind her of her soul. She knew the piano was available to her in the Lassone music room just down the hall but hadn’t the heart to play. Now she stood quietly, letting the fruit of the instrument refresh her. How long it had been since she’d heard any loveliness.

  Part of her wanted to go inside Isa’s room, but she didn’t want to interrupt. If music was a salve to Isa’s recent sadness, it was a balm to Genny’s weary spirit. She let herself bask in it awhile, leaning against the hallway wall, eyes closed, as inevitably the music erased her worries in prayer.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there, but at last she opened her eyes. Perhaps she could sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the rest—and find Clara, who would probably enjoy the music as well. Genny quietly made her way toward the stairs.

  As she passed the Major’s room, she couldn’t help but notice his open door. She found her noiseless footsteps slowing and her gaze traveled within. There he sat, in his large chair in the middle of the room, one crutch held in his lap as if he might use it at any moment. She would have hurried past when she noticed his eyes were closed, but something caught her attention. He sat directly in the light from the open curtains. Perhaps that was what gave it away, the sunlight revealing an odd darkness to his lashes, which otherwise matched the fairness of his hair. And a tiny sparkle glistening just below one eye. A tear?

  Was he in pain? Perhaps he’d tried getting to a standing position because he needed something.

  Everything inside of her wanted to ignore what she saw. Perhaps she could send Clara to him, just to make sure his needs were met. But Genny’s feet wouldn’t carry her away. Clara had made her feelings about the Major clear; whatever pain he felt would certainly not be alleviated by her—at least not quickly. And so, swallowing something between repulsion and caution, she stepped into the doorway of the Major’s commandeered room.

  “Did . . . you need something?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her at first, and to her mortification she thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep. What was she doing, looking in on him in his private quarters?

  Then his eyes opened and he stared at her. Not in pain, at least not that she could tell. Rather he looked at her with something else, an intensity of the sort one found only when lost to the world around and present somewhere else, immersed in thoughts that lifted body, soul, and spirit away. But it was soon replaced by something like confusion when his gaze stayed on hers, almost as if he’d forgotten who she was.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly aware she’d interrupted his own enjoyment of the music. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I saw your door was open and thought perhaps you needed something.”

  He was still staring at her, rather regardfully, as if observing her closely. A tingle of discomfort wound its way up her spine.

  “No,” he said at last. “I was simply listening. Tell me, who is playing?”

  “Isabelle Lassone.”

  “Ah, the owner of this villa. I have yet to meet her, if I am to meet her at all. She plays well. Do you know if she plays Mozart?”

  “Isa is very accomplished. I’m sure she can play a great many pieces.”

  “I should like to meet her, I think. And you as well, Fräulein . . . ?”

  “Frau,” she corrected automatically. “Mrs. Genevieve Kirkland.”

  “Ah, yes, young Jonah’s mother. You have a healthy son, Frau Kirkland.”

  She looked at him, finding his observation odd.

  He must have guessed what she was thinking. “I mean only that you should be proud of him. He is young yet, but he will have a good future ahead of him. He’s strong and smart and quick-witted. The future will be run by such as him.”

  “Yes, I am proud of him, and I look forward to his future in a free Belgium.”

  For a moment she wished she�
��d choked back her words, and just as instantly she prayed a prayer of forgiveness. How true that the tongue was untamable! Insulting a German soldier—let alone an officer—was punishable by fine or imprisonment. How many placards had been posted around the city to remind her of that?

  Suddenly the Major laughed. He possessed straight, even, white teeth and he looked far younger with a broad smile on his handsome Aryan face. If no offense was taken, perhaps she could remove herself from his sight and he’d forget she existed. Forget that they shared a roof. Forget that he was the conquering Major and she but a minor flea in the way of a German-run future.

  “Ja,” he said after his laughter dwindled away, “there will be plenty of room for all talent, too. We Germans welcome such. You will see.”

  “Then if you don’t need anything . . .” She let her words fade as she took a little step backward. Much to her embarrassment, his gaze left her face to take in the rest of her, stopping at her feet and perhaps, she thought, seeing if she had on both shoes this time.

  “Thank you.”

  The two quiet words made her pause. “But I’ve done nothing.”

  “You offered to see to my needs. Clara is obviously reluctant, and the nurse who comes now and then . . . she is well-trained but has enough to do without one more patient on her roster.”

  Every sensible part of Genny’s brain cried a protest to this man’s gratitude, to his presence here in this country where he wasn’t wanted. How easy it would be to hate this German, like all the others. Effortless. He still wore a uniform, of sorts, a blatant reminder of the invaders who had killed her husband.

  Yet wasn’t God still in the individual? Not in the army as a whole, but in each and every man who welcomed Him? Belgian, English, French, and German, too?

  No. Not in those who made up such an army.

  She backed away. Without another word, she fled down the hallway and the stairs, sure he would not be able to follow.

  12

  We submit this issue with best regards to our most avid reader, Military General-Governor Freidrich Wilhelm Freiherr von Bissing. As you now hold in your hand that which you have tried suppressing by recent arrests, perhaps you will admit you hold innocent Belgians against their will.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  Edward found Rosalie waiting at the usual spot, in the shadow of the cathedral of Saints Michel and Gudule on Rue de la Chancellerie. It was a familiar spot between the long walk to Rosalie’s home in Lower Town and the letter boxes they’d each been assigned in Upper Town. It was a walk they both knew well, although Rosalie probably best. They passed Rue de Loxum toward Place de la Monnaie where, before the war, Rosalie used to practice her artistry on the faces of famous actors and singers. Now she used her talents only on faces like Edward’s, seeking anonymity instead of fame.

  Since it was safer to walk in pairs, they’d often met at this spot an hour before curfew with enough time to spare getting back to Rosalie’s. After a day of clandestine deliveries, seeing Rosalie used to bring comfort. It meant another day of offering hope to an oppressed population through the paper. Staying free to work again.

  But lately her company brought less comfort.

  She greeted him with her familiar smile—perhaps, he thought, a little too eagerly. Many times during this same walk he’d looped her arm through his, or they’d laughed as often as they dared without drawing too much attention to themselves. Not today; he walked silently at her side, all the way back to her home. He hadn’t been there since the day after the arrests, had stayed just long enough to assure himself she wasn’t among those taken. Since then he’d slept like a vagabond on one church floor or another or in abandoned flats to which he had the key thanks to his connections through La Libre Belgique.

  Jan was expected at Rosalie’s, but her house was dark and cold. Edward tried to light a lamp after finding there was no electricity. He followed Rosalie to the kitchen, where she bent over the stove to heat a kettle.

  He withdrew the bread he’d received earlier from Father Clemenceau, taken from the top, visible layer of his specially sewn bag. The bag offered two sections: one compartment for the bread or other such innocuous items and another barely noticeable beneath that, except for at the seam from which he could pull one page at a time, empty now of more than fifty copies of their news sheet. Rosalie had sewn a dozen such bags, each used by couriers for the secret newspaper.

  Rosalie brought a pitcher of water and cups, filling each. She took a seat then, watching him all the while.

  “I’ll see Father Clemenceau tomorrow about more paper,” Edward said. “Have you thought any more about a replacement for the St. Michel distributor?”

  “Yes, the boy Felix told me about before leaving for the border will work. He’s willing.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Nothing more than that Felix recommended him.”

  “Let’s hope we can trust that, then.” Edward stood to retrieve a knife from the drawer where he knew Rosalie kept them and set about cutting the bread. “I’d like to write another article about the difference between true justice and what’s happening under the Germans. Or perhaps we should let the topic of the arrests die with the issue we just finished and go on as if nothing has ever happened. That would chafe them more, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  Edward handed her a piece of the bread. He cut another slice for himself.

  “Edward. Sit.”

  He obeyed.

  “Shouldn’t we talk?”

  “We are.”

  “You’ve kept yourself so busy these last days I’ve barely seen you. And when I do, you can’t even bring yourself to look at me anymore. Did I do something to offend you?”

  “No, of course not. What could you have done?”

  “Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”

  He sent her a smile that had always soothed her in the past. “Then nothing is changed.”

  She set aside her bread, leaning forward. “But something is. You’re more distant than ever.”

  He stood again, to retrieve the plates he should have brought when he cut the bread. He gave one to Rosalie and kept one for himself. “Every month there are new arrests, Rosalie. Our turns are bound to come. Now is not the time—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard you say that before, only everything around me and everything inside me says differently. We’re alive, Edward. Every day we should live as if it were our last, instead of hoarding it.”

  Hoarding life? He was willing to bring the battlefield right here to Brussels in the form of joining others who worked on an underground press, to help inspire the whole of Belgium toward the hope that one day their occupiers would be shut out, pushed back, made to pay for their crimes. He was willing to spit in their collective eye as no one with a real identity would dare. Yet here he sat with one young woman, afraid to tell her he knew what she wanted but had found he had nothing to give after all.

  “I won’t tell you how to live, Rosalie.”

  A moment ago it had seemed she was the stronger of the two, pressing him to speak when he didn’t want to. But with those few words she seemed to shrivel, her shoulders drooping, her eyelids wilting.

  She offered a smile but the corner of her mouth trembled and he remembered why he found her so attractive. Strength and weakness all at once.

  “You’re too comfortable with me. I’ve always thought so,” she whispered. “Unlike me. I’m far more uncertain around you.” She set her bread on the plate and rubbed her hands together, looking down at them. “I suppose I should find someone who cannot possibly wait for better times to be with me.”

  He reached for one of her hands, but she withdrew it before contact could be made.

  “Rosalie? Edward, are you here?”

  Jan’s voice had never been more welcome. Edward called to him.

  “Look!” Jan waved a paper in front of him as he neared the table, and even in the dim light of the open wood
-burning stove, Edward could see excitement in Jan’s normally cool eyes. “It’s another issue, same number as the one we issued right after the arrests. I’ve been trying to track it down all afternoon, and all I could learn was it came from right here in Brussels. There are others left out there besides us.”

  He held another La Libre Belgique—similar in style and set, but not their own, issued as if in correct succession. Edward had to do little more than read the first line of the top article to know it was legitimate—illegitimately legitimate, as it were.

  Jan was nearly smiling. Knowing they weren’t alone was heady indeed. But Rosalie didn’t smile, and Jan hardly seemed to notice.

  13

  Beware the German wolves wearing civilian sheep’s garb.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  “I told you, she will not see you.”

  “And I tell you again, she is the one to decide.”

  “If you don’t leave this minute, I’ll have you removed. And I’ll contact the Kommandantur in the process.”

  “You want them here no more than I do. Now go. Get your mistress.”

  Isa heard the voices at the kitchen door just as she stepped past the doorway from the dining room. Clara’s impatience was obvious, and although the man spoke excellent French, he did so with a decidedly American accent.

  “Clara?”

  She saw the servant stiffen, turn her head slightly, then slam the door. But the man on the other side evidently did not take offense. He knocked a moment later.

  “What is going on?” Isa asked.

  “A man—a stranger—says he wishes to speak to you, but I do not trust him.”

  “Why ever not? Who is he?”