Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  He took one step back, then offered a smile. He’d never had a confident smile, and this one wasn’t any different.

  But it was all he had to give just then, and he preferred her memory of him to be that and not the sorrow that made such a smile so difficult. Leaning upon the makeshift crutch, he turned and walked steadily away.

  He could not look back.

  * * *

  This war reveals the utter failure of such a notion as armed peace. Man has yet to discover a way to prevent war.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  Epilogue

  Armistice Signed, End of the War! November 11, 1918

  * * *

  Isa Kirkland sat in the front parlor of her parents’ grand home, amid the noise of an end-of-the-war party. Celebrations had erupted all over Baltimore but none more festive than her mother’s. Perhaps few participants elsewhere had as much to be grateful for as Isa and her family.

  But that wasn’t the only reason this was one party Isa welcomed. Her parents had spent more time in the last year with Isa and Charles than away from them, ignoring countless social obligations. Even now, with guests still pouring in and filling the many rooms of their elegant home, the family stayed intact here, in the smallest parlor of the house.

  Across the room were her brother, Charles, and his wife, Julitte, Charles in concentrated discussion with Edward. Genny and Jonah were here too. Jonah was nearly as tall as Isa these days. And the newest addition to their family, a son recently born to Charles and Julitte, gurgled and giggled on a blanket in the center of the room.

  Isa could barely tear her eyes from the child, knowing in a few months’ time his cousin would be born. Even animated talk about the armistice couldn’t command her attention.

  “You look like you have a secret,” Genny whispered, next to her on the plush brocade sofa.

  Isa felt the warmth of a blush. “Maybe I do.”

  “You’ve never been a tease, so you must want to tell me.”

  “I do. I will—we will. I was just waiting for a lull in the noise.”

  Isa’s gaze landed on her husband, whom she’d loved nearly all her life. He laughed over something Charles said but caught Isa’s eye and sent her a wink. Edward and her brother had become as close as brothers themselves, much to Edward’s surprise—and to Isa’s glee. In the year and a half since they’d joined forces to create one of the most popular newspapers on the East Coast, the two had spent nearly as much time with each other as they had with their wives.

  Isa glanced at her friend, her mentor, her mother-in-law, all in one. “Genny, I know it hasn’t been easy for you these months since we’ve moved here. But I’m hoping if we surround you with enough family, you’ll think of this as home.”

  Genny brushed Isa’s cheek. “I once told you that where you are—and Edward and Jonah—that’s where I’ll call home. I haven’t been unhappy here.”

  “But not really happy, either. So far from your memories with Edward’s father . . . and Max.”

  Genny looked away as she always did when Isa whispered his name. How long would Genny wait for him? It had been nearly two years without a word.

  “I’m happy, Isa.” But the sparkle of a tear in the corner of one eye belied Genny’s words. “The war is over; Jonah will not be called to service. The world is safer than it was just yesterday. And you, I suspect, are about to give me another reason to be thankful. What more could I ask for?”

  Isa wanted to say Max’s name but feared the single tear in Genny’s eye might be joined by others if she did.

  “Come now,” Genny whispered. “Catch the eye of that husband of yours again and have out with this announcement. I have a hug just waiting to be shared.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is it?”

  Max von Bürkel did not move from the motorcar, one he’d hired with its driver at the Baltimore dock. The importance of the question made him forget, for the moment, to be proud of having learned the English language, though he imagined his accent must be heavy.

  “Yes, sir. That’s the address you gave me. The gate is open. Do you want me to drive you up to the door? I can make it past all of these other motorcars.”

  An open gate and countless other vehicles should not be an impediment to one more visitor, yet it was to this one. Those vehicles no doubt belonged to invited guests, unlike Max. Perhaps they celebrated the end of the war, a war in which he’d been their enemy. The lane curved to accommodate several tall trees, but even so he could see the size of the mansion befitting such grounds. Brick, three stories, tall windows. As spacious as only America could offer.

  Was she in there, his Genny? If not, anyone who lived in this Lassone estate could surely tell him where to find her.

  He cautioned himself again about calling her “his Genny,” but no matter how many times he told himself otherwise, he’d never listened to his own best advice. It had been nearly two years. Two years since he’d left her, sneaked back into Germany and to his wife’s side.

  The first had been a year of visits, a year in which Käethe had gradually come to know him again, in which they had become friends again. A joy he never would have known had he not done what he knew he must and honored the promise he’d once made to his wife. A promise Genny herself had reminded him to fulfill. So he’d returned to her, loved her.

  But Käethe had never come home with him. Had she sensed the truth, even though he’d never admitted that his heart resided elsewhere? Perhaps, if they’d been given enough time, he might have convinced her to come home with him. They might have lived contentedly at least, as friends.

  Instead, when the influenza gripped the convent, Käethe had been among the first of its victims. One day Max had been there with her, handing her his kerchief when she’d coughed. And the next day she had died, before he even knew so many were sick.

  Somehow the sickness had spared him. It was random in its choice, taking nearly half of the nuns and those who tended them. And though Max had been a regular visitor, he’d never developed so much as a sniffle.

  That had been six months ago. All those months he’d waited, and not just for the war to end, though Germany had grown so desperate that he’d known the people couldn’t support it much longer. Max had also waited for guidance from God.

  Eventually he’d gone to the officer who had once commanded him and revealed his crimes, confessed his treason. And waited again. Surely he deserved whatever punishment was deemed necessary.

  But it never came. The army was in such chaos, throwing every man to the guns, that Max’s crimes were forgotten. Germany had more troubles than it needed without punishing one more of its own from within.

  Amid rumors of the end, Max had no desire to stay, to wait until the army caught up with its punishments. Nor did he wish to watch the soldiers return—not to victory parades but in defeat.

  His destination had been decided long ago.

  And yet . . . was he meant to be here? What would Genny need with him after so long? Particularly if she lived here, with a family that had so much?

  Nonetheless, he would let her decide if she wanted to see him or not. He’d promised to find her, and so he would.

  “To the door,” he told the driver.

  Because Max always honored his promises.

  Author’s Note

  All characters in this book are fictional except for Brand Whitlock, the American ambassador to Belgium during this period of time. Doktor Stuber is inspired by Doctor Stoeber, the German judge-advocate who sentenced Nurse Edith Cavell to death. La Libre Belgique (Free Belgium) is an actual newspaper that began printing in the year 1884 under the name Le Patriote (The Patriot), started by two brothers, Victor and Louis Jourdain. Le Patriote stopped circulating after the August 1914 German invasion, refusing to submit to German censorship. In 1915 the paper reemerged clandestinely under the direction and financing of Victor Jourdain and his friend Eugene van Doren as La Libre Belgique in order to give hope
to an oppressed population. After the war, it retained the name La Libre Belgique and is still in circulation today. Apart from the quotes opening chapters 5 and 9 and the Berlin letter excerpt cited before chapter 26, all other “quotes” contained in this novel from La Libre Belgique are the imagination of the author but strive to convey the message represented by this paper in its form during the German occupation of Belgium.

  About the Author

  Maureen Lang has always had a passion for writing. She wrote her first novel longhand around the age of ten, put the pages into a notebook she had covered with soft deerskin (nothing but the best!), then passed it around the neighborhood to rave reviews. It was so much fun she’s been writing ever since.

  She is the author of several novels, including Pieces of Silver—a 2007 Christy Award finalist—Remember Me, The Oak Leaves, On Sparrow Hill, My Sister Dilly, and most recently, the Great War series. She has won Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart award and American Christian Fiction Writers’ Noble Theme award and has been a finalist for the American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year award, the Inspirational Readers’ Choice Contest, and the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. She is also the recipient of a Holt Medallion Award of Merit.

  Maureen lives in the Midwest with her husband, her two sons, and their much-loved dog, Susie. Visit her Web site at www.maureenlang.com.

  Discussion Questions

  1. Isa and Edward are willing to risk their lives because they believe in the power of words to inspire, restore, and give hope. Share an experience where the written word has impacted you so that you felt differently after you read it.

  2. Isa is naive about the state of affairs in occupied Brussels, even surprised when she learns the Germans have taken over national landmarks like the Palais de Justice. As Americans, we’ve been blessed to never have to confront an infringement on our freedom. What everyday activities do we take for granted that might be taken from us if we were ever occupied by foreign troops?

  3. Isa and Edward express different ideas about how to interpret God’s will. Isa claims it must be God’s will for her to be there simply because she has made it safely. Later, Edward tells a group of Germans that God revealed His will by way of desire. What are the merits and the flaws in each of these interpretations? Why do you think God’s will is sometimes hard to figure out?

  4. Throughout much of the story, Edward doubts that God can be in control when life is so chaotic and unfair. Have you ever turned from God rather than turned to God when you don’t understand why bad things happen around you?

  5. Genny tells Isa: “I don’t like myself when my thoughts are so full of hate, and I doubt you would either.” But when Genny is with Max on the way to St. Gilles, she admits to herself that she hates every one of them, even the one at her side. Share a time when your outward appearance, words, or actions vastly contradicted your inward emotions. Was that good or bad? How did you handle it? Is it possible to redirect one’s emotions? How?

  6. Have you ever considered which side God would be on in the wars throughout history? How do you think God feels about war in general?

  7. After Isa agrees to house the press, she realizes she might have endangered all of them just to get Edward to notice her. Have you ever convinced yourself you were doing something solely for God, depending on His protection, when underneath you had mixed motives? What made you realize that?

  8. During the dinner party discussion between the Germans and Edward, one of the sentiments expressed is that God may exist but can hardly be concerned about the details concerning mankind. Edward assures them God is concerned, because He loves all of us. How would you respond to this sentiment? Do you think Edward is right? Is God concerned with every decision we make?

  9. Edward admits he was never sure whether his faith had been his own or simply handed down to him from his father. Have you ever wrestled with whether your faith was your own and not simply something you “inherited” from your family or culture? How did you resolve this uncertainty?

  10. Genny informs Edward that he’d better learn to distinguish Max from the army he represents because Max is a Christian and they’ll have to spend eternity together. Have you ever struggled with your attitude toward a fellow Christian who differs from you in some substantial way? All emotion aside, how do you think God wants you to handle your relationship with this person here on earth?

  11. Have you ever felt helpless in a situation where anger seemed to be the only emotion you could decipher? When Edward thrusts his fist at God, Father Clemenceau reminds him that God doesn’t have to justify Himself to anyone. Has anyone ever given you this sort of spiritual slap in the face, to remind you of your place and that God is God and He can allow what He sees best in order for us to know Him best?

  12. When all seems lost, Isa accepts her fate. How do you think she might have handled her sentence if she didn’t have faith that there is more to this life than the number of years we spend on earth?

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of book 3 in THE GREAT WAR series.

  Travel to postwar Germany, where a young soldier returns home, only to find he no longer has one he recognizes. When family friends ask him to go to Munich to find their daughter who has run away to join the political scene, Christophe agrees . . . not realizing it will change the course of his life forever.

  Available spring 2011

  1

  One step, then another. He’d started out with his eyes forward, chin up anyway, but somewhere along the journey, his gaze had shifted; all he could see now were the tips of his boots.

  Christophe Brecht was inside German territory, the train having taken them back over the border, away from the trenches that had marred France for the past four years. The ground his boots pounded belonged to the fatherland.

  Home.

  The only sound was that of his men marching beside him—not that their tread could be called marching. Most looked as tired and worn as he, barely able to take that next step, still covered from boots to knee in the mud of no-man’s-land.

  He looked over his shoulder again. There were shadows back there. Not of men, but of . . . what? He didn’t know.

  Did any of them remember how it was when they marched—yes, really marched—in the other direction? Songs echoed from every avenue, praise and flowers showered them from smiling women, and proud pats resounded on the back from fathers and old men.

  He told himself to look up again. He could see far down the road. They’d been made to get off the train on the outskirts of the city, not far from Christophe’s village. So he shoved away old thoughts of how this day was supposed to be. No victory parades to greet them, no flowers. No woman to kiss him now that he was home. Just silence.

  He stared ahead under the bright sunlight. His vision was clear, something the army had taken advantage of when they’d trained him to be a sniper these past two years. Most likely many men beside him couldn’t see as far as he could—the series of signs on poles before them with splashes of red, in flags, in backdrop. Political signs he hadn’t seen the likes of since before the war. Back when people still talked about such things, when the German voice wasn’t the single one it had turned into during the war.

  Then he saw it. An older poster, a bit tattered in the wind. The Kaiser’s face, easily recognizable with his moustache and uniform. A call to arms.

  Christophe tore his gaze away, to the sky, back to his boots. He’d answered that call; so had each of those who trod at his side. A call that had ended this way.

  Rumor had it the Kaiser had fled Germany. Good riddance. But somehow having him step down, even in disgrace, wasn’t enough. If what they said about the armistice was true—that Germany was to blame for the war—then the world hated them. Hated all of them for how the Kaiser and his cronies, both aristocratic and military, had pushed them into this war.

  Hated them almost as much as Christophe hated himself for all he’d done while in it.

  His pace picked up before h
e knew it; blood pumped as wildly as it had during any fight with the British or French, either in offense or defense. He reached for a rock and hurled it at the Kaiser’s image. It landed with a thud directly between the eyes.

  Another rock, then more, along with a grunt here and there, a muffled cry. Were they his? No. A few men broke ranks and hurled themselves at what was left of the poster.

  All his life Christophe needed something to cling to. His parents, a schoolmaster, the church, his commanding officer. In the trenches, other soldiers. And Christ.

  Hate filled him now, and he clung to that.

  Christophe held back another rock in his hand—no need to throw it; the poster had disappeared.

  * * *

  “And so, fellow Germans! The calendar may say autumn, but in fact we are in the springtime of Germany. The winter of an unjust war is behind us. New life buds for all of us. Are there storms in spring? Yes, but the squalls bring us the energy we need for change. We can build our country anew and model for all—for ourselves and for our neighbors, with the world’s eye on us—that we speak as one voice, a voice of men, of women, all of us together.”

  She barely paused, although the crowd was already beginning to cheer. She read the same fervor on every face; it was like a wave passing over those gathered, binding them together, uniting them. All of them, no matter what walk of life separated them beyond this crowd, now—together—were one.

  “They’ll hear us speak of protecting and not exploiting our fellow citizens. They’ll hear of our compassion for those in need, feel it in the plans Jurgen has for Germany. We’ll no longer be stomped by the yoke of a monarchy or under the oppression of warmongers. We will be free—yes, really free—to live in the peace our men fought for. Peace! Freedom! Fairness!”

  Annaliese Düray reveled in the jubilation, in the immediate approval of her call. They outmatched her voice, which was a considerable thing because her voice was bigger than she was—especially on this platform. Hands raised, she lifted her cry even louder, momentarily proud of the timbre she’d inherited from her onetime schoolmarm mother. Not strident like a screeching woman but mid-toned, boisterous, easy on the ear even at this volume. “Peace is ours! And so is the future! If we rally behind Jurgen!”