Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  Edward tried again but came up with no alternative. Nothing.

  Get them outside of Brussels.

  As easy as that.

  His only choice was to succeed. Somehow. “All right.”

  Edward turned. He had much to do and not much time in which to do it. But first he must get back to work for La Libre Belgique and pray the others working for the paper had found another printer. The sooner they produced the next issue, the better for Isa and his mother. If the Germans thought for a moment they’d truly gotten the heart of the paper when they found the press in her cellar—the “automobile cellar,” as they’d once named their imaginary headquarters—then the women he loved were doomed.

  35

  Was it not Shakespeare who said:

  And on your head

  Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries,

  The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans,

  For husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers,

  That shall be swallow’d in this controversy.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  The guards woke them early, surely before dawn. Isa guessed the time by her own fatigue, without a clock, wristwatch, or even a window to gauge anything by the sun.

  She and Genny had clung together in the corner through the night. From their cell she could see no others but guessed only women were nearby. They’d heard voices last night, and other than the guards’, all of them were female. A few had talked freely as if they’d been there some time and grown used to the surroundings.

  But how? How could anyone adapt to the dark, the filth, the dampness, the hopelessness?

  A nun came through once, speaking in German, telling the prisoners not to worry, that God was surely there. But somehow, hearing the comforting words in German brought no comfort at all.

  The guards, instead of delivering the kind of tasteless food Isa remembered from the Kommadantur, thrust canvases through the bars, with a roll of thread and needles for each cellmate.

  “You will sew the rest of these as the example on top shows,” the guard announced to Isa, then went on to deliver the same bundles to others.

  “These are for sandbags,” Isa said to Genny.

  “We cannot refuse—”

  “They can’t force prisoners of war to do war work. It’s against international law.”

  Someone gasped. Isa hadn’t meant to be heard outside of their cell; she wasn’t even sure of the source of her boldness to have said anything at all, even just to Genny. Except she recalled Edward once saying the Germans had enough reason to shoot him, so one more reason hardly mattered. How fitting were such words for her.

  Another prisoner spoke up. “There is a law saying we don’t have to do this?”

  “That’s right,” Isa answered.

  “She is correct.” Another unseen voice echoed in the damp stone corridor. “One even the Germans must obey. They signed the Convention of the Hague too.”

  “You will be silent as you work, Frauen and Fräuleins.” The guard’s voice drowned out the women’s chatter.

  “Resist!” another voice farther down shouted.

  “You will work!” the guard returned.

  “We shall not do it anymore,” someone called. “We shall not work for the Germans against our own sons at the front.”

  “Silence! I will have silence.” The soldier marched the corridor, stopping at Isa’s cell. “This is not against the law. As none of you are prisoners of war, it is perfectly legal to have you do this.”

  His face was so cold, his gun so near, Isa took a step back.

  “Not prisoners of war!” one of the women demanded. “Then what are we?”

  He never took his eyes from Isa, despite her silence. “You are criminals. Now get to work.”

  Isa didn’t move but the standoff wasn’t from courage. Fear made her immobile.

  The objections stopped, the calls ceased, but based on the silence, no one had taken up the work, either. The guard took another step toward Isa’s cell. “You are the one who started this, Fräulein. It is you who will set the example for the others, even if I have to inspire you.”

  His calm tone did nothing to lessen her fear. “If you beat me,” she said, “I shall be of no use at all.”

  “True enough. I’ll not beat you. I’ll beat her.” He pointed his nose Genny’s way.

  Bile rose in Isa’s throat. Bruises inflicted on her the day before reminded her how mercilessly efficient the Germans could be with their punishment, even upon women.

  Isa sat on the cot, taking up the first piece of canvas and the needle.

  “She is a wise woman to put herself to work. Work will help you to pass the hours of your confinement. It is for your own good. I suggest the rest of you do the same.”

  The soft rustle of canvas, the gentle noise of quiet work began. After a while the guard stopped marching the corridor. And so Isa worked. She had never been good at sewing and took some comfort in finding no reason to improve.

  Before long someone down the way began humming. A single voice soon joined in. Isa looked at Genny. They both knew the tune and added their voices.

  “The Lion of Flanders,” a song Isa had learned as a child.

  The German returned and shouted his threats again, reminding them it was illegal to sing, whistle, or even hum songs that used to represent Belgium. He banged his rifle against the bars and one by one the voices fell off.

  But not before Isa winced under her first smile of the day.

  * * *

  Edward stared at the carpet, holding his head in his palms, elbows on his knees. How long had he waited while men paraded in and out of the American Legation? All looking as desperate as Edward felt, hoping to obtain cards freeing them from the German deportations.

  But they weren’t as desperate as Edward; they couldn’t possibly be. He was losing his hold on time, losing his mind. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours in the past two days; exhaustion muddled him. And yet he’d had to come again, to see if Brand Whitlock had found any hope of freeing Isa and his mother through legal means.

  Whitlock had all the sympathy Edward could hope for from someone so important and had taken the responsibility to contact Isa’s parents, without telling the Germans that he’d done so. He’d told Edward that although communication was limited and for the most part monitored, he hadn’t yet heard from Isa’s parents, but they would no doubt immediately petition Washington for additional help. Unfortunately, so far, they were all apparently powerless.

  “Relations between America and Germany have been deteriorating for some time now,” Whitlock said gently. “Even if I had all the time in the world—which as you can see from the state of things around here, I don’t—the Germans wouldn’t listen to me.” He leaned back and suddenly looked old, tired, sorrowful. “I’m sorry. For Isa.”

  Then he stood, and Edward did too. He followed Whitlock to the legation door. “Tell Mr. Painlevé I am at his disposal if there is anything he thinks I can do. As long as I am in Belgium, I will do what I can.”

  Edward nodded, thanked him in a low voice, then left the building. He put his hands in his pockets. The air was cold, colder than he could ever remember, as the biting wind stung his cheeks. He let the weather dictate his pace, as even the soldiers did lately.

  The streets were nearly empty, between the cold and the deportation cards that had been sent out recently to every unemployed man in Brussels. Edward did not see a single sentry all the way to Painlevé’s office.

  Painlevé shoved a piece of paper across the desk. “These are the names, as close as I can gather, of those I might be asked to represent. Isa and your mother are on the list.”

  Edward sank to a chair, knees weak.

  Painlevé sighed deeply. “I suppose I should not even ask, but is this the end of La Libre Belgique, then? Have they gotten them all?”

  Edward would have liked to grin but couldn’t muster it. “The next issue is being print
ed as we speak.”

  The barrister could still laugh. “The German celebration dinner shall be rained upon for certain.”

  Edward had visited his contact early that morning. They knew about the celebration feast being planned for that evening: a banquet honoring those who had worked so hard to arrest the resistors producing La Libre Belgique.

  One of the first issues off another illegal press was to be delivered to that very celebration, and another folded neatly into an envelope for General von Bissing himself—delivered to what everyone hoped was a deathbed since rumor had it he was ill.

  “This is good,” Painlevé said. “At least I will be able to show a copy to the judge-advocate tomorrow. They will know they have yet to capture the heart of the organization.”

  Edward’s heart thumped. “The trial is tomorrow, then?”

  “Which is unfortunate.”

  Edward sat forward. He already knew one reason to wish Isa’s trial postponed—at least until he could smuggle her out of Belgium. She may be uncomfortable in a German prison, but at least they would have to keep her alive until tried. “Why unfortunate?”

  The barrister’s brows drew together. “Do you remember me saying so many sentences depend on the whim of the court?”

  Edward nodded.

  “Doktor Stuber is presiding tomorrow. His whims are never good.”

  Edward swallowed, afraid to ask the obvious. “Who is Doktor Stuber?”

  Painlevé cleared his throat as if stalling to let Edward have one last moment of peaceful ignorance. “Doktor Stuber is a judge-advocate known for demanding the death penalty . . . upon men, upon women, even upon boys too young to be called men.”

  The last time Edward had been filled with this kind of desolation, he’d been standing over the rubble of his family’s hotel and home. Maybe it was a leftover habit, maybe it was a faint memory of his father’s wishes, but Edward was reminded to pray. He hadn’t known what difference it would make and didn’t now, either. All he knew was that day he’d refused.

  This time, he didn’t.

  36

  La Libre Belgique, Special Edition, January 20, 1917

  The immense Palais de Justice sits on a hill above the city, the most prominent of buildings in the most prominent of places, as if to say that justice watches over all. This building that once offered Belgian justice now flies the black, white, and red, flag of an occupying army. Lined around its walls are sandbags, and at each corner near the statues of Justice, Law, Force, and Royal Clemency now sits the black orifice of a great cannon, aimed at the very city the building itself was once dedicated to protect.

  Inside the Senate chamber today began another mass trial of those suspected of involvement with none other than this paper, La Libre Belgique. Sculptures of great Belgian history tucked within carved mahogany panels overlooked the accused. They sat upon benches fashioned into semicircles, with bayonet-bedecked sentries at each end. Nearby, four Belgian barristers frantically conferred among themselves, having only just been given their cases.

  Facing them all were the German judges in field gray, medals shining in the light. The bench at which they sat was covered in green baize, where rested their dark leather gloves and silver spiked helmets. The president of this tribunal sat in the center: Doktor Stuber. For those La Libre Belgique readers who have not had the displeasure of meeting him, Doktor Stuber has a look of cruelty about his grim-visaged face. La Libre Belgique has it on solid authority that he is stern in public and demanding in private, critical of those around him, insensitive toward others while secretly thin-skinned. To him, everyone is either a superior or an inferior—there exist none equal to him. Belgians are the latter of the two.

  Prosecutors were to present their strongest cases first, no doubt in a wish to begin with the harshest of sentences. To incite the others to either tell the truth or face consequences of their lies? Or simply for the iniquitous Doktor to watch the faces of those who must follow sentences of severest magnitude?

  They called the first victim. Isabelle Lassone.

  A woman stood and stepped before the judges. She might have been pretty once; who could tell? Her face was covered with bruises, her loose, peasant-style dress soiled and shapeless . . . and somehow familiar. This court has seen prisoners brought in before wearing just such hideous garb. Her hair might have been lovely some time ago, probably blonde if allowed to be clean. Instead, much of it was shorn close to her head, with oddly missed strands sticking out at peculiar angles.

  How thorough the prosecutors were to include altering the image of the accused so as not to arouse unwanted sympathy in the men who would judge her.

  They recited the list of crimes she’d committed against the Imperial Government: illegally housing the press and printing La Libre Belgique, writing for La Libre Belgique, distributing La Libre Belgique. Indeed, they accused her of being the very core of the organization, the cellar of her residence reputed to be the legendary “automobile cellar” that had for so long produced the illegal newspaper.

  Added to that crime, this Mademoiselle Lassone was formerly found guilty of aiding an Allied soldier, at which time she was shown pity and given a light sentence of a mere fine. Most recently, while housed in St. Gilles, she incited a riot within the cellblock, refusing to carry out work generously provided in order for inmates to productively pass their time. She inspired others to sing a banned song of Belgian patriotism. She is, members of the court were told, a leader and a spark, one who inspires followers in her rebellious ways. For that reason alone, a harsh and memorable punishment must be granted.

  Crime: Verrat in einer Zeit des Kriegs. Treason in a time of war. Proposed sentence: Todesstrafe. Death.

  To her credit, this Belgian patriot swayed only slightly when the requested sentence was announced. No hysterics, no tears. She closed her eyes and stood stiff as if blocking out her surroundings. Other prisoners behind her appeared shocked, afraid, timid. Just the sort of reaction the virulent Doktor Stuber undoubtedly craved.

  The defense barrister stood. La Libre Belgique was still in operation, he claimed while balancing passion with caution. Despite the accusation that this woman was at its core, a new issue had been found only that morning. A nimble hand had pinned a copy to the sentry just outside the Palais de Justice door. Nor was there evidence she’d ever written for the paper. The Allied soldier, the spy to whom she’d given aid, had himself admitted she didn’t offer to help him flee the country.

  The barrister finished with a plea for leniency of the court, reminding them that she was an American citizen by virtue of her mother and her birth in that country. To condemn one of their own to death now, when an apparently endless number of American men might soon be called against Germany, would only inspire them to their arms all the quicker.

  Doktor Stuber need barely have listened. It is the way of German justice to see only one damning fact at a time. After all, Isabelle Lassone’s home housed the infamous automobile cellar. (La Libre Belgique offers this with a grim irony, as our surroundings are untouched, our paper still free, our voice undiminished.)

  And while the Germans prove once again the sham of their justice, La Libre Belgique will mourn the shortened life of yet another lovely young patriot.

  Those German citizens filling the streets of Belgium who knowingly support the continued injustices perpetrated by their country are guilty, at the very least, of criminal blindness.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  37

  Edward stumbled on the pavement. A nearby sentry looked his way and Edward turned, afraid of attention. He walked. Not slow, not fast. He no longer felt the cold, didn’t care when the wind stole his hat. He paid no attention to where he headed. Inside his head spun a whirlwind.

  Though he’d spent the morning spinning more productively—seeing to final details regarding distribution of La Libre Belgique’s special edition—with that finished, Edward could no longer push away the truth.

  A death
sentence. Firing squad.

  The words echoed in his head, over and again with the same result. Death.

  Nausea accompanied each vision of Isa at the hands of the Germans, sent to Tir National like the others.

  He didn’t even have the comfort of going to his mother or to his friend Jan—both sentenced to labor in Germany. His mother for three years’ servitude, his friend deported to a work camp.

  And so he walked. He must move, must clear his mind of images too ghastly to withstand. One step led to another; it didn’t matter where he went.

  At last, the twin towers of the cathedral loomed overhead. He should go inside and pray. He should plead with God to save her, and maybe somehow . . .

  Edward kept walking. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. His jacket was not enough to ward off the chill. Yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know where to go.

  He could go to Rosalie’s abandoned home. She’d gotten safely away, and Jonah too.

  But Henri hid at Rosalie’s, and Edward didn’t want to face him. He couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

  The bells rang at the chapel he shared with Father Clemenceau. He hadn’t meant to come here; he hadn’t been back since Isa’s arrest for fear of being arrested as well. The one time he’d met the father was under cover of a crowd, and neither had been dressed as priests. Now Edward found he didn’t care about the risk. He made his way into the sanctuary.

  Walking slowly up the aisle, Edward stood before the altar. But he did not bow.

  Instead, he folded his arms and stared at the crucifix.

  “Edward! What’s happened?”

  His voice was so soft and compassionate that for the barest moment Edward felt a childish response: he wanted to burst into tears. But instead he turned to one of the seats and sank onto the unyielding wood. He spoke quietly, telling the priest about the sentences.