Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  “I don’t know what to do.” Edward swallowed again. He knew only one way to steady his emotions, and that was through anger. An anger that came from the core of him. “I know one thing I’m finished doing, and that’s praying. I tried that before, Father—and everybody I prayed for is dead. So I’m done asking God for help. His kind of help I don’t want.”

  The priest’s perpetually friendly face altered only slightly in raised white brows. “So you think this is all God’s doing?”

  Edward leaned forward in his chair. “All I know is that two years ago when I returned from the camps, I prayed for the men I was with. They died. I was the only one who didn’t. And now the people I care about most in this godforsaken world are the ones in trouble. Am I supposed to pray for them now? So they can die too?”

  “It’s your fault, then, that whomever you pray for God singles out to die?”

  It sounded ridiculous even to Edward, yet he found himself nodding. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. He’s cursed me with life while others—those He brings into my life to love—He takes from me. What kind of jest is that, Father? What kind of God do you serve?”

  The father frowned. “A loving one. Do you think God owes you an explanation of why He’s allowed you to suffer? Do you think He must give you an accounting? We speak of God Almighty. And I will say to you what He said to Job: ‘Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding.’ Were you there, Edward, when God created the world? Why should He explain anything to you?”

  Edward couldn’t speak, not even to offer a defense.

  “God never told Job why He let him suffer,” the priest said, softer now. “But don’t doubt that God is God, Edward, and that He hears each word you utter, knows each thought. His plans may never be revealed to you fully, at least not in this life, but it’s not yours to question. You must accept the sovereignty of God and trust in His goodness even when everything around you feels the opposite. He will bring glory to Himself through you, Edward, if you let Him. And as our Creator, isn’t that the greatest gift He can give?”

  Edward’s head was empty and lost, his heart leaden. He had nothing without those he loved. Without Isa. His mother. All his worry, all his caution, had done no good.

  He was powerless. And if he could not turn to God, his Creator, then where else could he turn? God was God, and Edward wasn’t. Edward was just a puny man whose effort to protect everyone had failed. He was without the right to challenge his Creator. It would be like holding his palm against the wind to try stopping it. Impossible.

  “There is one more thing, Edward,” the priest said gently. “Your girl and your mother need you now more than they ever have before. They need you to be strong in all ways: emotionally, physically, and perhaps most importantly, spiritually. Depend on God for your strength, and He will see you through. You can be certain there is a higher purpose for all of this. I promise you that because He promised it first.”

  Your girl . . . Isa, my girl.

  “I’m sorry,” Edward said, so low he wasn’t even sure Father Clemenceau could hear. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t apologizing to the priest.

  * * *

  Isa didn’t see Genny after the trial. She saw her only as she was led from the Senate chamber. Their gazes met for the briefest moment, long enough for Isa to see the anguish in Genny’s eyes.

  Isa was taken outside without a coat, herded to the back of a foul-smelling wagon. Someone said, “Vilvorde,” and that made her look up, wondering if some measure of evil glee would accompany the acknowledgment of where she was being sent. Hell, Pierrette had called it.

  The castle prison at Vilvorde.

  * * *

  Maximilian von Bürkel hobbled up the stairs of the building on Rue de Berlaimont. He counted them in French because if he didn’t occupy his mind, he would curse each one. He wasn’t sure what method he would use to keep himself from cursing once he saw von Eckhart.

  At the correct door Max strode past yet another sentry, faintly surprised by his own dexterity, barely needing the cane. Perhaps fury was the greatest source of strength and balance.

  The sentry had no chance to offer an objection, if he’d been bold enough to make one. Von Eckhart was at his desk and looked up with a smile at Max’s sudden appearance—a smile Max wanted to smash from his face.

  “Tell him to shut the door behind him,” Max said. How calm he sounded, deceptively so.

  Von Eckhart nodded to the sentry and the man backed out.

  “Max! This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you’d gone home to Käethe.”

  “I’m back.”

  “Oh? And how is she?”

  Max never took his eyes from von Eckhart’s. “I want to know about Genevieve Kirkland and Isabelle Lassone.”

  “Oh, so you’ve heard about our most recent arrests? We haven’t entirely stopped that foul paper, but we’re closer than ever, I promise you that. And I suppose I should really thank you, Max. If it wasn’t for you, I never would have met your Fräulein Lassone or continued having her shadowed by my informant.”

  “Don’t give me credit for your false arrest. I came here to clear up this nonsense.”

  “False arrest?” He laughed. “You’re too late. The trial was two days ago, and they’ve both been found guilty. With plenty of evidence, I might add. Do you mean to tell me you never once heard that press running in the cellar? smelled the ink?”

  “I can guarantee that Frau Kirkland had nothing to do with it.”

  “There I must disagree, my friend. Surely she knew; she was one of them. In all probability she was the distraction to prevent you from finding out about the whole thing.”

  Max’s jaw clenched—even if that was a scenario he’d already considered. “You said the trial is over. I came straight from the train. Tell me Frau Kirkland’s sentence.”

  Von Eckhart stood. “Ten thousand francs. Three years’ penal servitude.”

  “Either, or?”

  “Both.”

  For the first time since entering the building, Max’s anger failed him. He looked behind for a chair and, seeing one, sank into it.

  Von Eckhart came around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge closest to Max. “Look, old man, I didn’t know you cared for the woman. I thought when you went back home, you’d found out about the press but didn’t want to be the one to betray them. I know you’re the loyal type.”

  Max barely listened. Three years. “Is she still in Brussels?”

  “Frau Kirkland is at St. Gilles. She won’t be moved until after the Kaiser’s birthday. Everything waits until the celebration. Did you know we’re going to have cameras? Filming the Grand Place with cheering civilians, so happy to wish their benevolent new leader a happy birthday.” He laughed again. “Of course, those civilians will be Germans and not Belgians, but who will know? Fortunately for us, cameras do not record the sound of German voices.”

  Max stared at von Eckhart. “There was a fine assigned. I’ve heard rumors about such matters. If I offer to pay that fine . . . along with, shall we say, an extra incentive . . . might they agree to pardon the rest?”

  Von Eckhart sucked in a breath. “I don’t know. The press was found under the roof where she lived. The sentence was light, considering that.”

  Max sprang up, fighting for balance with his cane. “I tell you, she never touched a copy of that blasted paper.”

  Von Eckhart wasn’t afraid; Max could see that. But he knew von Eckhart respected him, or had once, and Max had never been more earnest in his life.

  “You can vouch for her whereabouts, I assume?” von Eckhart whispered. “Day . . . and night?”

  “Think whatever you like, but get her out of there.”

  “Not so fast, my friend! I need to see some money first.”

  Max turned away. After receiving Father Antoine’s note, he’d gone to his family home, where he had money hidden in a vault. But it had dwindled considerably, evidently draine
d by Käethe before she went to live in the abbey. He had barely enough to cover the initial fine—in Marks, but he doubted von Eckhart would care.

  Max handed over what he had. “Consider this the first installment. Tell me what more it will take, and I will get it.”

  Von Eckhart took a moment to count it, then looked up at his old friend. “Double this and she will walk out with you.”

  “I want to see her,” Max said.

  But to that von Eckhart shook his head. “That would not be wise if we’re going to alter her sentence, old man. For now it’s best we keep this between you and me.”

  Max had no leverage. He must accept what he could get. He headed to the door, hearing von Eckhart retreat behind his desk.

  “You know, Max, you’re lucky you know me. I’m not normally so agreeable. But for you, well, exceptions can be made.”

  Max never turned around.

  38

  Does it do any good to shut your eyes against danger? No, my fellow Belgians, we must be awake, alive, alert to all that is around us and not listen to the falsehoods spread by the German propaganda.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  Edward ran the streets for three days between the American Legation, Painlevé’s office, and most recently, the back of a cardboard factory, where he once again met Mr. Jocosa. That was not his real name, but Edward knew no more of the man’s actual identity than Jocosa knew of Edward’s. Even so, the two became well acquainted. Recommended by Father Clemenceau, it was the mysterious Mr. Jocosa who knew which soldiers were safe to bribe and which to avoid. When he learned Edward wanted to gain the freedom of no less than three prisoners—one even sentenced to death and held at the prison in Vilvorde—he laughed. He only accepted the challenge after Edward produced one of the largest diamonds in Henri’s collection, promising more.

  Edward received word on Jan first. Jocosa told Edward that Jan would be on a train bound for Germany with other prisoners condemned to deportation. Jan was to be shuffled from one car to another at Aix-la-Chapelle at the German-Dutch border, where he would have three minutes of freedom. If he was recaptured after that, it would be his own undoing, but it was the best offer Jocosa could get. Some of the soldiers welcomed such games, betting their own skills against the prisoners’, all for the money and love of a battle of wits.

  Edward trusted Jan’s wits to get him safely to Holland.

  The news Jocosa brought of Edward’s mother baffled him. The guard through whom all bribes were channeled in that block was reported to have acted oddly. He easily took the money but already had a plan for her release that differed from the one Jocosa proposed. Far simpler, though it involved an officer, which usually guaranteed success but was normally more expensive.

  Nonetheless, Jocosa said Edward’s mother would be free before the end of the week.

  Isa’s release filled Edward’s mind every moment of the day. He’d already funneled thousands of francs Jocosa’s way, to no avail. He’d gone back to Mr. Whitlock and Barrister Painlevé so many times he was sure they tired of him, yet neither offered any hope. Painlevé had been the one to tell him where Isa was being held and that he wasn’t sure if it was good news or bad that her sentence had been delayed until the twenty-seventh. Normally such sentences were carried out immediately, but in honor of the Kaiser’s birthday they would dispense with the traitors as part of a dawn tribute to their leader.

  Edward rejoiced. It gave him more time. But it also added an unwanted element: with so much emphasis on the celebration, anyone in the German army connected to the sentences was beyond reproach. Dutiful, dedicated, devoted to the Kaiser. Unapproachable with a bribe.

  But Edward would not give up—and wasn’t about to let Jocosa give up either.

  * * *

  Max took the few steps up to the front door slowly. The frosted glass that once had been framed within the carved front door lay in shards on both sides of the jamb, letting the cold January air howl into the hall.

  Glass crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped inside. The open, deserted home in a desperate society had fallen prey to looters. There was nothing left. The blue upholstered furniture was gone, the once-bright carpeting now more black than gray. No light fixtures, no brass knobs on any of the doors. Indeed, even one of the doors was missing between the parlor and the butler’s hall. But there was no damage to the structure except where fixtures had been ripped from the walls. It looked like a house ready to be let, except for repair and cleaning.

  Max went to the kitchen, through the pantry, and down the stairs to the cellar. He saw piles of wood and bricks, gaping holes in three of the four walls. Two led to dirt. The last was the largest hole, large enough for him to step through.

  There was no press but there were remnants of crumpled paper and a few cylinders left behind. He’d believed the report, but something inside had spurred him to see for himself.

  Was this why you spent so much time with me, Genny? to keep me distracted?

  But he found it didn’t matter. The truth was, he loved Genny and would do anything to free her, including using the last of his savings and selling a ring that had been in his family for three generations. He didn’t regret doing it, even if Genny had felt nothing for him. He’d never expected anything from her. How could he? He still had a wife. One to whom he must return, even though she couldn’t remember his name.

  Max left the secret room, picking up the longest lengths of wood he could carry, scraps of what had once been wine racks. He had no nails but hoped to find some. As thoughts of boarding up the front door blossomed into the idea of moving back in, at least for a few days, Max found himself climbing those stairs with the agility of a whole man.

  * * *

  Isa lay still on the cot, her back to the bars. She breathed steadily but was far from sleep. In the past three days she’d used slumber as an escape, and God had granted her the blessing of rest.

  At last she turned on her back and stared at the low, curved ceiling. This was the crudest of the cells she’d been in, the most isolated. She was surrounded by cold, damp cement; it had the feeling of a hole in the earth. Water dripped from somewhere, but she was the only living being, other than the occasional passing rat, to inhabit anything within hearing range. Two sets of bars separated her cell from any other she’d passed when first brought in. There were no windows, no electricity, no plumbing. Just a cot and one thin blanket. And a bucket.

  Guards changed every twelve hours. One sometimes sat between her cell and the next set of bars, close enough so she could hear him move, far enough so she felt the isolation more sharply.

  Of the guards she’d seen so far, only one had looked her in the eye. He’d even managed to produce the blanket and bring her tea with the tasteless gruel yesterday. He’d also spoken to her, telling her he’d enjoyed her song the night before. It was a hymn she’d sung while hoping to banish the absolute silence and to invite the presence of God.

  She had thanked him politely, the way Genny had taught her no matter the source of such a compliment. And then she watched him go, to be replaced by one of the others who blended in so well with the gray walls surrounding them.

  Since then she had lain on her cot, nearly unmoving. Praying the numbness would last. Until the end.

  * * *

  “He’s left messages in every parish in Upper Town, trying to find someone who knew Father Antoine.”

  Edward turned his full attention to Father Clemenceau, who had sent for him through various connections, not one of whom would know how to find Edward if the chain was broken. New identity papers were stuffed in his pocket: he was now Faas van Folkvaror, the son of a wealthy Dutch shipbuilder.

  “What rank did you say this officer held?”

  “Major.”

  Edward’s heart sped. “But he wouldn’t leave a name?”

  “No. He said if Father Antoine wanted to see his aunt again, he should come to the Lassone residence.”

  Edward made a hasty tr
ack to Isa’s. He didn’t listen to his own cautious nature. It could be a trap. After all, Father Antoine had been at the Lassone residence countless times while the press was there. Surely he was suspected as well; that was why he’d taken the trouble to change his identity. But something told Edward this was one German Major he need not fear.

  The door was boarded, glass swept to the side. Edward knocked and it sounded hollow inside. He knocked again, hearing nothing and fighting to hang on to his hope even as it sank. Pivoting to look around, he half expected armed guards to appear. But the front garden, the street, the neighborhood, appeared deserted.

  At last he heard an uneven footfall approaching the door. Edward breathed easier. He hadn’t been mistaken.

  When he opened the door, Major von Bürkel looked at Edward, obviously perplexed, then surprised, and finally pleased.

  “Major,” Edward greeted.

  “Come in out of the cold,” he said, stepping out of the way. “Though I can’t promise it’s much warmer in here. Come to the kitchen. I’ve lit the stove at least.”

  Edward followed, seeing Isa’s home devoid of its former splendor. It might have rankled or pleased him once, but the loss seemed trivial now.

  It was indeed warmer in the familiar kitchen. The table was gone and in its place stood a smaller version and two plain wood chairs.

  “I found these tucked in a corner of the garage. Evidently the looters missed that spot.”

  Edward took a seat, and the Major produced two cups, hot water, and tea. What might have once been awkward for Edward now seemed ordinary, that he should sit at the same table with this German officer.

  The Major looked at Edward as he poured. “I see you aren’t a priest, but you aren’t her nephew either, are you?”

  Edward shook his head.

  “I thought as much, to be perfectly frank. I thought the resemblance too strong. Is she your mother?”

  He nodded. “How do you know she will be freed today?”

  “Because it was I who arranged it.”