Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  “A stranger; that’s enough!”

  “Oh, Clara, let the man in.”

  “I dare not!”

  Isa pursed her lips. It was uncommonly early, just past nine. But sleepless nights worrying over and missing Edward ended sooner when she rose early and kept herself busy with whatever household duties she could find. She passed Clara and opened the door.

  “Oh, mademoiselle!” Clara hurried from the room.

  The man in front of Isa wore civilian clothes and was not much taller or older than Isa herself. He was handsome, with chocolate brown hair and eyes that matched and a sudden smile that showed slightly crooked teeth—indeed, his only apparent flaw, which made him all the more disarming.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You’re an American!” He spoke in perfect English.

  She nodded. “How did you know?”

  “I’m from America, too. Ohio, ma’am. Cincinnati.”

  She raised her brows. “But how did you know an American lives here?”

  He pointed to the paint on the cement stairway leading up to the door, a blight on the once-pristine exterior. “Nicht plündern. You’re one of the few houses around here without the comings and goings of a bunch of Jerries.” He looked around as if nervous. “Say, listen, can I come in?”

  Isa looked too, but behind her, wondering where Clara had gone. She saw no reason to turn him away. “We don’t have much food, but we have bread and tea. Would you like some?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stood back to let him into the kitchen, where he took a chair as she moved to the cookstove to light a flame under a pot of water. Then she retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and went into the pantry for the bread. Back at the table, she set about cutting several slices and glanced at the young man sitting before her.

  “Why are you here, in Belgium?”

  He hesitated. “We’re alone?”

  She nodded, handing him a piece of bread.

  “I came over with the Canadians,” he said. “I think it stinks what the Jerries did to Belgium, and so I joined up to fight. Got all the way to the front. Trouble is, I got separated from my unit. We were fighting over at Ypres.” He pronounced the town as if it rhymed with wipers, and Isa had to catch her bottom lip to suppress a rude giggle. He certainly sounded American!

  The young man looked suddenly serious as he set the uneaten bread aside and leaned forward, running his hands over his face as if rubbing away what he saw in his mind. When he looked at her again, his eyes were wet, the rims red. “I’ve been hiding out for months now, blending in here and there. But I have to go back. My men need me.”

  “Your men?”

  “Well, the men I was with. I’m not an officer or anything. ’Course you couldn’t even tell I’m a soldier in these civilian clothes. I stole ’em off somebody’s clothesline. But even though I’m just a private, I’m a pretty good shot and I don’t want them to think I deserted. I’ve got to get back.”

  “Then what are you doing as far behind the lines as Brussels?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I couldn’t just walk back to the right side, you know? So I kept going, getting as far away from the fight as I could. As I figure it, I’ll have to go all the way up to Holland and rejoin the Allies from there. They can put me wherever they want, so long as I’m fighting again.”

  It was a sound plan, and he seemed sincere, especially since his English was so natural.

  She added tea to the hot water and let it sit, watching him eat his bread. He did so slowly, as if he’d been raised in a proper, polite home.

  “Why should you want to go back? It’s not as if you’ve deserted. Certainly you have nothing to fear of your name being tainted.”

  “I’ve got to go back, ma’am. It’s a point of honor. And I sure don’t want to be caught by the Jerries.”

  “I see.” She poured the flavored water through a sieve to collect the loose tea fragments. Then, offering him the cup, she looked directly at him. “I wish I could help you, but of course you know I cannot.”

  “What?”

  “Just because I’m an American doesn’t mean I know how to get out of this country.”

  “But—but you haven’t been here from the beginning, have you? I’ve been watching all the big houses around here for weeks, and it seems to me you just got here.”

  She frowned. “Perhaps, like you, I’ve been in hiding. Germans were living here until a couple of weeks ago.”

  He shifted in his seat, taking a cautious sip of the hot liquid. “Yeah, sure. Nobody wants to help out a soldier, not with the Jerries ready to pounce on anybody who does. But I heard talk about how an American just showed up one day and moved back into her big house. They said you left the country before the war, and now all of a sudden you’re back. I figure you came in the same way I can get out.”

  “But I have no idea how to help you!” She leaned close to him, adding quietly, “And further, I should tell you there is a German Major right upstairs who might be very interested in your visit.”

  He seemed to pale somewhat, and for the barest moment she wondered if she was wrong. But even if she was, how could she help him? It was impossible. One thing she’d sworn to Gourard was never to reveal the names she did know to anyone other than those he directed her to.

  “Perhaps you should go,” she said softly.

  Just as she spoke, a tall shadow approached the kitchen door and Isa knew without looking that it was Henri. No one filled a doorway quite like him.

  “Shall I have my friend show you to the door?”

  The young man looked from her to Henri and then back again. “But I’m an American like you. Why won’t you help me?”

  Isa had no answer, at least not one she could tell him. She had only to give one quick glance Henri’s way and he stepped forward. The man nearly jumped to his feet and hurried through the kitchen door.

  Isa closed the door behind him. “I hope I’ve done the right thing.”

  Henri put a hand on her shoulder, and when she looked up at him, he nodded.

  It wasn’t easy to accept his consolation. “But how can I know?”

  He pointed to his heart.

  “There was something . . .” She looked up at Henri again, almost surprised at her own realization. “It was the way he ate that bread, as if he wasn’t even hungry. If he’s been hiding, wouldn’t he have been nearly starving? Everybody’s hungry—except maybe German soldiers.”

  Henri nodded again, then went out the door as if to make sure the other man was nowhere in the vicinity.

  14

  Let us hope the hens lay their required number of eggs as demanded by the Germans, and the pigeons return to their cotes under the new German clocks.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  “Pull it tighter around each pin,” Genny said gently as she watched Isa’s attempts at lace making. They sat in the parlor under an oil lamp, the electricity out today. The room glistened under the old-fashioned lighting and Genny couldn’t help but wonder if the surroundings were enhanced because of it. The blue seemed softer, the gold fixtures muted, the wood more lustrous.

  Genny hardly felt qualified to teach anyone how to tat lace, yet it was one of the few things they could do to pass the time. Isa was a willing if not particularly brilliant student.

  “If Viole were here, she would have you weaving through those pins in no time. Out of the chaos will emerge a flower or a leaf or something just as lovely. You’ll see.”

  “The process is slow! It’ll take me until Christmas to finish this panel.” Just then Isa dropped the little bobbin from her hand, and she retrieved it with an exasperated sigh.

  “Mademoiselle,” came Clara’s voice from the parlor archway.

  “What is it, Clara?”

  Clara looked over her shoulder at the stairway from which she’d just come. “It’s the Major, mademoiselle. He wishes . . . he wishes to dine with the family tonight!”

  �
��Oh . . .” Genny saw the dismay on Isa’s face and knew it must match her own. But she also knew she mustn’t cave in to her natural inclination. Nor must Isa.

  Isa was already answering. “Tell him he is more than welcome to use the dining room downstairs, but as we’re in mourning, we are dining simply and in the kitchen.”

  “It’s been two years since Jonathan’s death, Isa,” Genny reminded her. “The period of mourning—”

  “Lasts as long as we are occupied by the German army.”

  Genny raised a brow. “I’m sure that will be well received.” She looked at Clara. “Tell the Major it’s our custom to dine simply, as Isa said, in the kitchen. It is entirely informal and hardly worth the effort for him to join us. Nonetheless, if he insists—”

  Isa rose to her feet, sending bobbins to tapping. “Genny! I cannot believe you would sit at the same table with him. After what they did.”

  How she wanted to scream, I know! And I hate them for it! I hate him! Let him rot in that little room upstairs, day after day, alone.

  Instead, she attempted a smile but her lips quivered in the effort. “Isa, no one remembers better than I what they’ve done. I miss my husband each and every day. But would you offend a commissioned officer of the German army when the consequences might be worse than the task?”

  Isa sank to her seat.

  “If our Lord were here,” Genny whispered, “what do you think He would do?”

  Genny watched Isa’s anger diminish to frustration, then reluctant acceptance, as her brow unfurled, her lips softened, her breathing eased. No less than the struggle Genny endured but was better at hiding.

  Isa turned to Clara. “Do as Genny says.”

  “And, Clara,” Genny called, “when you go back upstairs, will you tell Jonah to come here? I think we need a little family meeting before dinner.”

  “Yes, madame, only I do not think little Jonah has come home from school yet.”

  “Not come home?” Genny repeated, glancing at the anniversary clock on the table nearby. Past five.

  Now it was Genny’s turn to rise from her seat. She went into the hall and to the front door, stepping outside and looking up, then down the street.

  “I’ll take a look upstairs anyway,” Isa said from behind. “Maybe he slipped by us when our heads were over the lace.”

  Genny came back inside as Isa returned downstairs. Isa didn’t say a word, confirming what Genny already knew: Jonah wasn’t home. Wringing her hands, she tried to remember the names of some of the boys Jonah chummed with, but only names from Lower Town sprang to mind. He hadn’t been going to school long enough in this district for her to have learned the names of any new friends.

  “I—I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Let’s go to the school and see if he’s still there. Perhaps he’s been kept after for some mischief.”

  Genny grasped at the notion. “Yes. Only you stay here, Isa. Perhaps he’ll show up at any moment. Someone may try to reach us here. Someone should be here.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. I’ll get your shawl while you get your papers.”

  Genny was already on the porch when Isa returned with Genny’s black lace shawl. She accepted it as she descended the steps, hurrying to the street and walking as swiftly as she could without breaking into a run.

  Even as her unsteady breathing echoed in her ears, she reminded herself of the same thing she’d reminded herself two years ago. God still reigns. But although the words tried to summon a sense of trust, her feet did not slow. Not the Germans, not the Germans . . .

  She found the school dismally quiet, the back playground empty. But when she went around to the small school’s entrance, she stopped short. Not a child did she see—only a half-dozen or more parents with looks of worry on their faces that no doubt matched her own.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “We’ve been waiting nearly an hour, but the schoolmaster isn’t here.”

  Another woman nearby nodded. “All the teachers were gone before any of us came. The janitor said they left quickly today.”

  “The younger boys who came home said there were soldiers here,” another woman said. Her eyes were wide, her mouth taut.

  Just then someone strode toward them at a brisk pace. Genny didn’t recognize the man, but the others must have because they all pressed in on him. Genny did so too.

  “Schoolmaster Frode is still at the Kommandantur. I returned as quickly as I could. Several boys were taken to St. Gilles prison—now, now.” He raised his voice over their onslaught of gasps, moans, and questions. “We’re told they are all together and not in a cell but in an interrogation room.”

  “But why?” echoed the question from nearly every person near Genny, including herself.

  The man shook his head and looked down at the pavement. “You will have to ask the Germans that.”

  The parents broke out in myriad questions, all of which rang in Genny’s head. She wanted the answers too, but knew this man could offer none. She wanted to do only one thing: rush to St. Gilles and demand to see her son.

  God still reigns . . . and loves Jonah as much as I do. . . . God reigns.

  * * *

  Isa sat on the couch, the lacing tools and pillows forgotten. She hid her face in her hands, pleading God’s protection over Jonah. Prayers alternated with possible plans. If Jonah was missing, she must find Edward. Genny would need him. Jonah would need him. She would need him.

  A shuffling sound came from the top of the staircase. She looked up but did not move. The Major. The interloper, the invader. She preferred not to think of him at all, wishing he’d continue to stay inside the room he’d commandeered.

  She must learn to deal with this man. If only she could achieve the calm of Genny, the control of Edward . . . the love of Christ.

  She watched as the Major came into view, one hand on the walnut railing, the other on his cane. The hand on the railing was white-knuckled. His head was bent, looking at the steps before him, obviously concentrating on what must be a new sense of balance.

  She took a second look at his feet. . . . Two?

  Staring unashamedly, she saw a matching pair of shoes, one that tapered into a narrow wooden peg beneath the cuff of his trousers.

  No wonder he’d been ready to try the stairs. Isa held back a sigh. She would indeed have to learn to deal with this man if he was to be as mobile as any other.

  Still, he was obviously uncertain on the stairs and she wondered if she should help him. Surely she should. She didn’t want him to fall, did she? didn’t want to be witness to such an indignity? And yet how many indignities had his army caused the Belgium she loved? While the struggle between God’s Spirit and her own gave her pause, the man reached the final step and the moment of offering help passed.

  The Major looked back at the stairs once, then around, at last spotting Isa. “Ah,” he said congenially. “Fräulein Lassone?”

  She nodded, stepping forward. He seemed not to have noticed that she had watched his unsteady descent rather than offering assistance. Or if he did, he hid whatever it made him feel.

  “Clara said you dine in the kitchen, and as that is a most agreeable location to me, I’ve come to join you.”

  “I—I’m afraid dinner will be delayed,” Isa said carefully. She wasn’t sure what to say, how much to tell him.

  Just then the door burst open and Genny stood there, flushed and breathless. “They’ve taken him! Oh, Isa, they’ve taken my boy.”

  Isa rushed to Genny. “Who’s taken Jonah?”

  “The Germans!” She spoke the word with unveiled disdain, and it was then Isa saw Genny’s gaze travel beyond her to the Major. She lost what little color she had left in her fair face.

  Her eyes met Isa’s again. “You must go to your friend, to the ambassador. It isn’t only Jonah, but several boys from the school. They’ve been taken to St. Gilles—St. Gilles! Can you imagine what in the world they could be doing, taking boys to such
a place? You must go right away, Isa.”

  The Major hobbled forward. “Jonah has been taken to the prison in St. Gilles?” He was clearly skeptical.

  Genny squared her shoulders and faced him. “Yes, Major. Even now I don’t know details, except that soldiers marched the boys from the school. I intend to go there while Isa goes to the American ambassador to see if he might help.”

  “St. Gilles is not an easy place to visit,” he said.

  “What would you have me do? Simply wait, while my son—my eleven-year-old son—is held in such a place?”

  The Major turned away, and Isa saw Genny’s face fill with disgust as clearly as she felt it herself. But before a moment had passed, the German yelled for Clara.

  Clara came into the parlor, but the Major looked from the servant to Isa. “The Kommandantur is a fair walk from the American Legation, but you must do it. Will you wait and deliver a message for me?” He looked at Clara. “I need paper. And something to write with. Quickly.”

  Clara scurried off, and Isa exchanged curious glances with Genny.

  The Major turned back to them. “I cannot promise this will be of any help. But at the very least it will not hurt.”

  He limped to the nearest chair, and in a moment Clara handed him what he’d asked for. He scribbled a note, folded it, and wrote a German name on the outside. He spoke as he handed it to Isa. “Give this to anyone at the Kommandantur at the Hotel de Ville. Herr Lutz is known by all, and they will see that he gets this. Go now, and then on to the legation. Having your ambassador involved will not hurt. Hurry, Fräulein Lassone. Frau Kirkland cannot be kept waiting long for her son.”

  Isa hardly needed him to remind her of that, but she only rushed from the room, refusing to ponder the unmistakable look of compassion upon his face.

  She ran part of the way, slowing only when she turned to the narrow, busy streets leading to the Town Hall in the market square. The number of soldiers increased along here, so close to their headquarters. She slowed; she’d left in such a rush, she didn’t have her papers.

  Countless soldiers milled the Grand Place in front of the Town Hall. From its side bled a line of people that wrapped farther down the nearest narrow artery than she could see. The entire square hardly felt familiar, though she knew this wasn’t the only foreign army these walls had ever seen or the only foreign boots to echo from the cobblestones. She walked past the ancient guild houses, past the king’s palace that had never housed a king, forcing a calm facade though her knees fairly quaked amid so many uniforms. She clenched her fingers on the note in a feeble attempt at stilling her trembling hands, looking no one in the eye, merely walking straight ahead toward the loveliest of Gothic buildings with its gilt belfry beneath the weather vane of St. Michel slaying the devil, below which blew the flag of Germany.