Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  Upstairs, Isa accepted tea. They stayed away from the smashed front door letting in an awful blast of wintry air, opting instead for the warmth of the kitchen. Isa let Genny brush her hair, as she’d done when Isa was little. Genny braided it down her back. Isa barely felt anything, welcoming the numbness again. It was all a dream, and soon she would wake up. She would tell Edward all about it . . . or maybe she wouldn’t. He already worried too much.

  Then they heard the sounds again: pounding feet, harsh German voices. Someone giving directions. Isa’s heart sputtered and terror replaced the numbness. She huddled with the others as the kitchen door banged opened and soldiers marched through again.

  So many? Surely one or two soldiers would have been enough for her arrest. But a half dozen arrived, a few carrying sledgehammers and picks, two carrying something she’d never seen before. Not a gun, yet deadly nonetheless, with something sharp protruding from the center, wooden handles on each side—like a little motor of some sort with a screw at the tip. The soldiers plodded through the kitchen, passing her by, going down the stairs.

  The Feldwebel was the last to arrive. He walked past Isa, who cowered with the other women, as if none of them were there.

  They’d already tested the wall with sledgehammers! Why try again? Something in the pit of Isa’s stomach pulled her spirits to a new low. She wanted to cry out, demand they all leave, but knew no one would pay her any attention.

  And then she heard the buzzing. Like a wasp, only louder. Deadly drilling.

  No doubt right through the brick.

  Sickness rushed through Isa and she ran to the sink and vomited. Genny, behind her, held back her braid as she’d done when Isa was ill as a little girl.

  Isa threw herself into Genny’s arms. “Oh, Genny, you know what this means! I . . . I’m so . . . sorry.”

  “Shh,” Genny said softly, stroking Isa’s head. “You’ve no reason to be sorry. We all did what we had to do.”

  “But Edward didn’t want you endangered. It’s my fault!”

  Genny shook her head. “I remember all of us making our own decisions. I still believe in what you and Edward were doing. Don’t you?”

  Isa nodded, accepting the towel Genny offered. She wiped her face, the tears, her nose. Of course she’d believed in the importance of the paper. That was why she’d agreed to house the press. Mostly.

  “We’ll face the consequences, whatever they may be.” Genny drew her close again. “But remember this, my little Isa: whatever happens, God is with us.”

  Isa couldn’t find comfort in Genny’s words. They might each have made their decision, but certainly Genny wouldn’t have been forced to make one at all if not for Isa. And Isa had wanted to work on the paper because it was a sure way into Edward’s life.

  How could she hope for God’s protection now, when she’d accepted the press for just as many selfish reasons as altruistic ones?

  33

  They have done their best to paralyze our voices, but we will not be silenced.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  Edward brushed his teeth and combed his hair, donned the black priest’s garb, and grabbed his biretta. It wasn’t much past dawn, but that was the best time to slip into Isa’s home unobserved. He intended to spend the day watching her place, making sure it wasn’t attracting any new attention.

  But already the night had calmed his nerves. Even while his concern over Jan grew, having heard he’d been taken to St. Gilles, Edward was beginning to believe in Isa’s claim that God really was watching over her. He’d spent a frantic day yesterday, but nothing had happened to either Isa or his mother. What good had his worries done?

  Upstairs, he avoided the sanctuary as he usually did, for fear of running into a parishioner who might think him a real priest. Instead, he went to the exit in the back—except a tall shadow at the base of the altar caught his eye.

  “Henri!”

  Henri’s face didn’t need words. Edward grabbed his arm. “Is it Isa?”

  Henri nodded and every bit of strength abandoned Edward.

  “The press . . . it’s been discovered?”

  Another nod. Edward grabbed the kneeler nearby, the walls, the altar, the pew benches all spinning around him.

  “They arrested Isa? and my mother?”

  Henri nodded again.

  Dread stunned him. Hadn’t this very thing haunted him from the start? He should have had a plan, one he could count on now. Did he? His mind blurred.

  Edward hadn’t the faintest notion of what to do.

  He stepped away from Henri, pacing one small track, back and forth, twice. “Money.” He looked at Henri. “I suppose there are soldiers there, collecting evidence, dismantling the press.”

  Henri did not move. He must not know. “We didn’t have enough left anyway. A couple of gold pieces, a jewel. That wouldn’t bribe her way out of home confinement, let alone the Kommandantur.”

  He turned and paced again, knowing if he howled, it would shake the rafters. But he kept silent. Oh, Lord God, what do we do now?

  He needed paper, a pencil. Action.

  “Come with me, Henri.”

  The big man followed Edward to the small room just inside the narthex where Father Clemenceau left pencils and envelopes for giving. He tore open an envelope for greater length of paper, one he could fold back into shape when he was finished.

  Leave Belgium. Take Jonah.

  He didn’t sign it; Rosalie would know from whom it came by the envelope.

  Then he searched for another sheet of paper, this one without evidence of its origin. He found nothing, only the blank endsheet from a catechism. It would have to do; he tore it from the binding and scribbled a note in German.

  “You must take this one to a friend of mine,” he said to Henri, holding up Rosalie’s refolded envelope. “And this one to the Kommandantur, to be forwarded to the Major who once billeted at Isa’s. I’ll give you explicit directions to Rosalie’s—”

  But Henri was shaking his head. He pointed to Edward, then started toward the door, motioning Edward to follow.

  “I must reach the American ambassador, Henri. And you must get those messages off. Immediately.”

  Henri pointed to Edward’s wristwatch; yes, it was early to see Mr. Whitlock at the legation, but Edward would find him somehow.

  And yet Edward trusted Henri, and Henri wanted Edward to follow him. Edward didn’t doubt the man’s devotion to Isa.

  “All right.”

  They left the church. Edward didn’t look back, though he wasn’t at all sure he’d ever return.

  Henri led him through the old city. They never varied their pace. Edward’s mind raced to all the things he could be doing, should be doing. Seeing Mr. Whitlock, imploring his own contact with La Libre Belgique for bribe money, trying to find someone sufficiently remote and disconnected to him yet willing to go to the Kommandantur to make inquiries about Isa and his mother. Finding a printer for the next issue was more vital than ever if he was to convince the Germans they hadn’t found the paper’s main source. Beside all that, Edward must establish a new identity. He doubted they would wait long before interrogating everyone who’d ever stepped foot inside Isa’s house, and several Germans knew he had a connection there.

  Henri took Edward to another church . . . no, it was an abbey. Well, at least they were walking in the right direction. The American Legation was on the same side of town.

  Henri rang the bell at the gate, and after a nearly unendurable wait, a nun opened the lock.

  “Henri, you are early today. I don’t know if your mother is awake yet.” She glanced at Edward and smiled. “I see you’ve brought a friend. Welcome, Father.”

  Edward barely managed a polite nod. His mind shouted to leave instead of entering this quiet, peaceful place. What was he doing here? He wasn’t about to hide away, if that was Henri’s idea. He had to do something. . . .

  And what had she said? Henri’s mother? This made no sense.
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  The sister led Henri and Edward across a courtyard and through a vast room with a low, beamed ceiling. They navigated corridor after corridor, dimly lit by candles held in sconces.

  At last they stopped. The sister tapped lightly on a rounded door. Edward looked from the sister to Henri, who stared so intently ahead he looked as if by his sheer will that door would open.

  And so it did.

  A woman stood there, dressed in the habit of a novice. Her face and hands were wrinkled with age, but her eyes were still a bright blue.

  “Ah, my son! Mon cher, come here.”

  Henri, so big and strong, would make anyone seem fragile. And this woman was nearly as tall as Edward himself. She patted Henri’s back with spirit and then, at last, noticed Edward.

  “Well, whom have we here, Henri?”

  Henri lifted a hand, palm up, directed Edward’s way, as if he were going to introduce him.

  Edward spoke. “My name is Edward. And I wonder if your son and I may speak with you alone?”

  Henri’s mother gave a little laugh. “Oh, Sister Zehara is as mute as my son when it comes to secrets.”

  But Edward shook his head. “I’m not sure why your son has brought me here, but I believe it has to do with helping someone we both care about. She is in the kind of trouble it’s better to have no knowledge of these days.”

  The old woman’s smile faded as she looked from Edward to Sister Zehara. The nun nodded, then left the room.

  It was a small place, sparsely furnished. No adornments, not a personal item to be seen.

  “I can see you’re troubled, young man, so you may as well get right to it. What is the nature of the problem?”

  “Do you know for whom your son works?”

  “Of course. The Lassone family . . . well, just little Isa now, since her parents left.” She smiled as if anticipating Edward’s question. “My son and I communicate via our own language—gestures and hand motions we’ve developed over the years since he lost his ability to speak.”

  “It’s Isa who’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Edward hesitated, sending a quick glance Henri’s way and receiving a nod, encouraging him to go on. It was even difficult to trust here, of all places. He told the woman the extent of it as briefly as he could.

  She looked at her son and patted one of his big hands. “I know what you want me to do, Son. Go and get them.”

  Henri went to the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a small pouch. He handed it to his mother.

  “These have been my son’s for many years, Edward,” she said. “For as long as it’s been since last I heard his voice. I’ve kept them for safety. Oh, I pull them out from time to time just to see the sparkle, but I can do without that.” She finished with a frail laugh.

  She emptied the contents onto the dark table, and before him were at least a dozen diamonds, all of various sizes. Yet the smallest was larger than any of those Isa had brought. “Where did he get them?”

  “Our Congo, of course. Brussels is not the center of gems for nothing.” She laughed again, as if the diamonds couldn’t be looked at without such mirth. Then her blue gaze rose to Edward’s. “Visit me when you have time someday, and I will tell you how Henri came to own this fortune—from the former owner of Isa’s house.”

  “I saw the diamond-cutting equipment before we moved the press to the secret room,” Edward said.

  “For cutting diamonds pilfered and smuggled.” She cast a gaze her son’s way. “Yes, my son was involved for a time. But when he met our Savior, he mended his ways.”

  Then those eyes clouded as if the memories couldn’t be had without pain. “He tried to quit honorably, even taking possession of these diamonds to barter his freedom. He nearly lost his life instead, but all they succeeded in taking was his tongue. He was left to die, but it wasn’t Henri who faced his final judgment that night. It was the man who owned that home and every illegal diamond. God took him peacefully in his sleep, of a heart attack. Those left behind never came looking for the diamonds Henri took because they’d all taken shares of their own.”

  She sighed. “Who can tell how God works? If only we’d known that man would die so soon, my son would have been free and his tongue not lost. Except,” she added, placing a delicate hand over Edward’s, “he wouldn’t now possess these diamonds, would he? For you to use.”

  “I don’t—I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”

  Before the words were out, Henri pushed the entire pile Edward’s way. He wanted to protest, to remind them there would be others in need too. But he couldn’t. Isa’s life was at stake, and Henri must know as well as Edward that it would take all the bribe money they had to find a way out of Belgium with her life intact.

  Edward put the diamonds back into the pouch. “This will save Isa and my mother, too. There is enough here to set up a clear pathway out of Belgium. Will you come along?”

  Neither even looked at the other before they both shook their heads.

  “The Germans may start looking for you, Henri. Anyone associated with Isa’s house must be known to them.”

  “My son will not leave Belgium,” his mother said, slowly rising to her feet. “Not while he might help others still here.”

  Edward needn’t ask details, having once known the same reason to stay. Before now.

  “Use this treasure to free your family,” she said. “And my son will do everything he can to help you all leave Belgium safely.”

  34

  Allow me to count the German virtues:

  Injustice

  Tyranny

  Dishonor

  . . . to name but a few, and let us not forget their eagerness for cruelty, behind which they hide their greatest weaknesses.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  Straw covered the cement floor but did little to keep down the stench. Isa looked at Genny. Her face, like Isa’s, was bruised and swollen. Isa gently touched her own jaw; it was afire.

  “How long have you been printing? How many times have you written illegal articles? How did you receive the rest of your copy, and from whom? To whom did you route it? How were you funded?” And on and on . . . until they’d battered her for a better result. But she’d refused to speak, grateful Edward had been so protective of what she knew, of whom she knew. Even if she’d wanted to talk, there was little she could have said. A name or two, a depot, a flat registered to someone who didn’t exist. But she said nothing, not even any of that.

  Genny knew nothing about the paper and must have been convincing in her honesty because her inquisition lasted two hours less than Isa’s. Even Clara had been with them earlier, although only at the Kommandantur. When they’d been taken from the Town Hall, Clara had been set free while Isa and Genny had been taken to a wagon. To St. Gilles.

  The ancient, fortresslike building shrouded with German flags offered no comfort. Isa knew Genny had been here with the Major to see Jonah. She tried to find strength in that, knowing Jonah had once walked this way and survived. Surely she could do the same.

  Yet when she walked, her knees buckled, her feet stumbled. And the guard had taken no pity, as if he’d led so many this way he’d long since lost sympathy.

  Their cell was far more secure than the cellar of the Kommandantur. Double the guards, various layers of bars added inside. The cell itself had wide stone blocks on three sides and heavy iron bars on the fourth. But the smell was familiar, only stronger.

  Genny and Isa barely talked, fearful of those listening. And it hurt. Isa winced with the slightest jaw movement. After their brief, whispered comparison of interrogations, they fell silent, unable to offer much comfort beyond knowing they weren’t alone.

  Isa had begun working for the paper knowing the possible consequences. But no matter how many brave admonitions she gave herself, she was afraid. May God forgive her for not trusting Him, but terror accompanied every breath. She’d begun this venture without the
pure intentions others held; hers had been mixed with the selfish hope of proving herself grown up, worthy of Edward.

  How silly it all seemed now; how foolish that her motives hadn’t been clearer, her assurance more firm. Had she ever been certain she’d been following God’s will? If she had, she might better trust His protection now.

  She heard Genny’s soft voice next to her.

  “‘We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten from the Father, the only begotten, from the essence of the Father, God of God, Light of Light, true God of true God. . . .’”

  Before long Isa joined in the creed that stated so clearly their faith, finding comfort amid her fear.

  * * *

  “It would be suicide for you to try anything before then,” Father Clemenceau said.

  Edward rubbed one palm absently over the back of the other hand. “January 27.” He said the date as if somehow by hearing it aloud, it would sound better. Less than two weeks—but a lifetime—to somehow free Isa and then wait for the day of escape from Belgium.

  The priest folded his arms. Sounds around them drowned their discussion, the noise of soldiers in the distance, civilians around them in the lines for bread. It was the only place in the city to hide in a crowd. They were dressed in the common fashion of the day: poverty. Tattered clothes, old shoes. Clemenceau disguised as a civilian, Edward no longer disguised as a priest. “If you are successful—and that, my friend, is a huge if—then you can depart on the boat we’ve already set up for my people. They’ve been busy over at Rue de Berlaimont with one arrest after another. Others are eager to flee because of the deportations. Rumor says the Germans still plan to deport men from Brussels, and every healthy young man in the city would rather risk flight than be rounded up for a work camp. The day we’ve chosen is important—festivities in honor of his Imperial Majesty’s birthday will serve us.”

  “Yes, and the city will overflow with soldiers.”

  “It already does! You once told me yourself, Edward, the best place to hide is under the nose of a Polizei. You get them to the tug docked two kilometers south of the guard station on the Senne outside of Brussels, and my friends will get them—and the rest of you—to Holland.”