by Kit Sergeant
“You may leave the cellar. We will escort you to the town of Roulers, as it is not safe here for civilians anymore.”
Marthe nodded her thanks to the hauptmann before leading her mother upstairs. Mevrouw Hoot followed closely behind.
They emerged in the Hoot’s kitchen to see five more German soldiers gathered around the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes.
Mevrouw Hoot coughed and waved her arms, but the smoke refused to dissipate. “Dit is mijn huis.”
“Not anymore, fräulein,” a man with a pock-marked face replied in German. “This house has been confiscated. Move along.”
Mevrouw Hoot, too emotional to process the soldier’s words, cast a helpless glance at Marthe, who motioned to follow her outside. She didn’t need the German soldiers to overhear her explain to Mevrouw Hoot that the house, which had belonged to the Hoot family for nearly a century, was no longer hers.
As the former prisoners walked out into the sunshine, their eyes traveled over the blackened remains of their village. The houses that hadn’t been completely burned down had shattered windows and doors—from the Germans searching for hidden villagers, Marthe assumed. Most of the trees that had once lined the broad main avenue had been felled and the street was littered with debris from the carnage: wooden shoes, broken saddle buckles, beer bottles, and other various discarded materials.
Marthe couldn’t bear to look at what remained of her beautiful village any longer. As she passed an abandoned spiked helmet, rage took over her mourning and she had to refrain from kicking it.
The soldiers accompanying them to Roulers allowed any woman whose house was still standing to collect a few belongings and pile them onto the dilapidated cart that would accompany them to Roulers. Most of Mevrouw Hoot’s clothing had been tossed out along with her family’s personal items, and she stood watch as the rest of the women gathered what was left of their lives.
As the women were escorted along a muddy highway, they frequently looked back to gaze at the ruins of their native village, wondering if they would ever see it again. It must have rained every day that Marthe was in the Hoot’s cellar as the mud, a constant presence in the low country of Belgium, was even more ubiquitous now that the masses of soldiers, horses, and guns had destroyed the roads. The Germans had tried to abate the flowing muck by strewing flax and looted curtains and carpets along the roadside, but still the sticky red sludge oozed, coating the refuges’ boots and skirts during the six miles to Roulers.
The larger town of Roulers was still unharmed, and Marthe stared wonderingly at the unscathed houses, their gabled roofs rising triumphantly over the intact cobblestone streets. When they reached the Grand Place, Marthe saw a market was taking place, with Belgian civilians readily mingling with German soldiers. No one paid much notice to the now homeless women and Marthe wondered what to do.
A kindly, gray-haired woman finally approached Mother. “You are refugees?”
Mother nodded.
The woman sized Mother up before stating, “I can take you as a lodger in my house, and I think I can find places for the rest of you.”
“And my daughter?” Mother asked, hugging Marthe to her.
“Yes, I suppose I can take her too,” the woman acquiesced.
A relieved Marthe began pulling their scant belongings from the cart.
That evening Marthe and her mother found themselves sharing a comfortable bed in a warm, spacious house. The gray-haired lady was the wife of a prominent grocer and she served them the first decent meal they’d had in weeks. After Marthe and Mother had explained their ordeal, the grocer’s wife promised to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Father. They still hadn’t heard any news of Marthe’s brother, Max, and she wished that all of her family could once again be united under one roof.
Wanting to make herself useful in the best way she could, Marthe set out for the Roulers hospital the next morning. She’d washed her face in an effort to look presentable, a task not easily accomplished in her ripped, muddy clothes.
The hospital was established in Roselare College on Menin Road and recognizable by the Red Cross flag that flew from a spire on the main building. An orderly standing propped against a pillar near the main entrance directed Marthe to the office of the senior physician, or Oberarzt.
The Oberarzt was a kindly-looking man with a well-trimmed beard. He nodded his gray head as Marthe explained her nursing background. “I am thankful for your presence,” he stated when she finished. “We are in dire need for a nurse as we have none.”
“None?” Marthe repeated. “That seems unusual for such a large hospital.”
“We have some Belgian women here who cook and wash, but none of them have any medical training.” The Oberarzt stood up. “Come, I will show you around.”
He led her into the first ward, where rows of cots in uneven lines filled the room. A doctor with drooping eyelids moved slowly among the men while two burly German orderlies assisted. The Oberarzt went to the aid of one man in the corner who was writhing in pain. Marthe could smell the gangrenous wound even before she looked down on the bandages covering his leg. The Oberarzt met the eyes of another doctor and mouthed the words, “amputate.” The other doctor signaled for the orderlies, who picked up the man’s stretcher and carried him away.
“It has been calm lately, relatively speaking,” the Oberarzt commented as he led Marthe into the civilian clinic, which was nearly empty except for an elderly man with a bandaged arm and a woman with a toddler on her lap. It seemed the Germans in Roulers were not nearly as barbaric as those who conquered Westrozebeke, or else they had paused their burning of homes and shooting of townspeople. Marthe bent down in front of the toddler to inquire what was wrong.
“It’s his stomach,” his mother told her.
“Right here,” the little boy added, pointing.
“It looks like you are ready to begin working here, then, fräulein,” the Oberarzt said, the approval clear in his voice. “I will see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, Herr Oberarzt,” Marthe replied, placing a stethoscope on the little boy’s chest.
Marthe soon fell into a routine where she would wake up early to arrive at the hospital by seven, and then leave by the same time in the evening.
A few mornings later, she was greeted by a new sight hanging on the door of the hospital: a piece of paper with a declaration from the new Town-Kommandant typed in large print:
My task is to preserve the public order in Belgium. Every act of the population against the German forces, every attempt to interfere with our communications with Germany, or to trouble the railway, will be met with severe punishment. Any resistance against the German government will be suppressed without pity.
The declaration, the type that would henceforth be known as an affiche, went on to establish a regular curfew from 7 pm until 5 am, stating that no unlicensed civilian should be out on the streets at that time. The Town-Kommandant ended his message by adding that, if he became displeased, he could move the curfew earlier and perhaps fine the town as well.
Marthe walked into the hospital with a scowl on her face. Roulers might have been visually in a better state than her hometown, but German occupation was equivalent to German tyranny. The Belgian government had left Brussels and was now in exile somewhere in France while King Albert was at the Yser Front with his troops, leaving the people of Belgium to be ruled by the iron fist of the Kaiser.
The Oberarzt greeted her with the same amicable tone as yesterday. “Ah, Fräulein Cnockaert, I am grateful to see you have returned.”
She forced a cordial smile. “Yes, Herr Oberarzt, I am reporting for duty.”
He nodded toward a smaller room off the main one. “We’ve had some Belgian soldiers arrive overnight. You can start with them.”
Marthe entered to find two men covered in bloodied bandages. She approached the first one, whose chest was wrapped in a dressing, the blood darkest on the lower part.
“He was shot in the stomach during the ret
reat to Namur,” his companion stated.
There was something familiar about his gravelly voice. Marthe turned to see her old schoolmate, or, what remained of him anyway. “Nicholas Hoot,” she remarked, surprised. Bandages covered his left shoulder, but she could see that some of the flesh of his upper arm was gone, and his left leg had been amputated below the knee. His face and body had been cut severely and the skin that wasn’t lacerated was peppered with bruises.
She poured him a glass of water and held it to his lips. “What happened?”
He took a small sip, but most of the water trickled down his chin. “The Boches. After that night they invaded Westroosebeke, I went out to look for Valerie.”
Marthe wiped at his mouth with a cloth. “She wasn’t with us in the cellar at your parents’ house.”
“I know.” He stared at the wall instead of meeting her eyes. “She tried to run from them…”
“Was she… did they…” Marthe couldn’t find the right words. She crumpled the washcloth in her hands instead.
“Kill her? Yes, but not before they’d each had their turn with her.”
“Oh Nicholas.” Marthe’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“I tried to get revenge as soon as I’d heard. I became a true franc-tireur and shot at them from the church tower.” The right side of his face turned upward in a strange half-smile. “I managed to wound a few of them before they found me. They shot me, beat me, and then left me lying on the road as a warning. The good nuns of Westrozebeke took me in and nursed me till the Boches accused them of being Allied informants. They ordered the nuns to strip down right in front of me. I swear, had I any strength left, I would have pummeled them until the Huns were bloodier than me if they so much laid a hand on them.”
“Did they?” Marthe was horrified at the thought of anyone, including the Huns, would even think of raping a woman of God.
“No. They just kicked them out of town and then evacuated the hospital. And here I am, a German prisoner. And a crippled one at that.”
“Nicholas, I…,” but once again Marthe had no words.
“Do you know anything of my parents?”
Thankful for some good news, she explained how Mevrouw Hoot had been taken in by Roulers townspeople. “I will get a pass for her to see you as soon as I can.”
“And Father?”
Marthe shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to him, or my father either.”
Nicholas shifted his body painfully.
“You should try to sleep now,” she told him. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
He didn’t reply as Marthe attended to the other, still sleeping, soldier, filling his water glass and then checking his bandages.
She could barely look at Nicholas’s pitiful form as she left the room.
Marthe checked on Nicholas one more time before she left the hospital that night. She had to hurry home, as it was nearly seven in the evening and the last thing she needed was a run-in with the military gendarmes who trolled the streets at night and harassed anyone about who was not a soldier.
She had just returned to the grocer’s house when she heard a rustling in the shrubbery outside the back door.
“Hello?” she called loudly.
“Shh,” a woman’s voice commanded.
Marthe blinked a couple of times as someone backed out of the bushes. “Aunt Lucelle!” she whispered in an excited tone.
Her aunt held a finger to her lips and, once again, shh’ed her.
Marthe opened the back door as Lucelle darted inside. Once in the kitchen, her aunt glanced furtively around. “Do they have a cellar here?”
Marthe pointed to the basement.
“Get your mother,” her aunt commanded before going downstairs. Marthe did as she was bid.
As expected, Mother was pleased to see her older sister. Aunt Lucelle seemed much more comfortable in the basement and stopped her shh’ing. “It’s the Berlin Vampires,” she explained, clearly referring to the German curfew enforcers. “They could be anywhere, and have the authorization to walk into houses unannounced.”
“Are you a criminal?” Mother asked.
Lucelle shrugged. She found a bottle of brandy and poured some into the cap before gulping it down. “I’ve come from the front. I have seen Max.”
“Max?” Marthe asked at the same time Mother said, “You’ve seen my son?”
Lucelle held up the cap of brandy. “He is fine and with the Army at the Yser. My own sons are also safe, thank God. But that is not why I’m here.”
“You are a spy.” As far as Marthe could tell, Lucelle had said nothing of the sort, but there was no question in Mother’s voice.
Lucelle nodded. “I am part of the British Secret Intelligence Commission.”
Marthe put a shocked hand over her chest. She’d heard of many Belgians accused of espionage, but had never actually met anyone who truly was a spy. The spy-paranoia of the Roulers Town Kommandant could have almost been laughable had the punishments not been so deplorable. When he accused the Staden town priest of spying, he ordered soldiers to drag the aged man of out of the church to dig his own grave and then shot him into it. Marthe found it hard to reconcile the ill-famed notion of a spy with the gray-haired elderly aunt standing before her.
Marthe noted wonderingly that her aunt had lost her front teeth as she spoke again. “I have to do something to help our people fight off the Boches.”
“We all do what we can for the war,” Mother replied in a quiet tone. “Marthe here is a nurse at Roselare.”
Lucelle looked at her niece with renewed interest. “You are in contact with enemy soldiers?”
Marthe nodded.
“Do they ever talk of military formations or troop movements?”
“I just started there,” Marthe responded. “But I did overhear some talk yesterday, though all the places sounded foreign.”
“You must pay attention!” Lucelle hissed. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. “How would you like to do more for your country?”
“You mean like espionage?” Mother demanded. “No. It’s too dangerous. They hang people on mere suspicion now.”
“It’s no more dangerous than Max being at the front,” Lucelle challenged. “And may be even more necessary if we are to win this war.”
Mother opened her mouth again, but no words came out. She was probably thinking what Marthe was—of Max, of Father, of all the townspeople that had been harmed by the Germans.
Marthe drew in a breath, her thoughts traveling to all she had seen that day—the oppressive affiche and poor Nicholas’s broken body at the hospital. She would sacrifice anything to help her fellow Belgians. “What would you have me do?”
Lucelle tapped her lip in thought. “I must communicate with my intelligence handlers, for it is through them that I get my orders. But I will be back around Roulers in a few weeks’ time and will send for you. However I can get my message to you, Marthe, you must show no surprise.” She set the nearly empty brandy bottle on the shelf and wiped her mouth. “I must leave—I’ve been here too long as it is.”
Marthe and Mother followed her up the stairs, where Lucelle slipped out as quietly as she had come in. They watched as she headed toward the fields and then was eclipsed by the darkness.
Mother’s eyes were wide as she looked upon her daughter, but she did not speak of what had transpired in the cellar.
Chapter 6
Alouette
September 1914
When Alouette finally returned to her Paris home, she burst in, the heavy door no match for her excitement at seeing her husband again. “Henri!” she shouted, setting her valise on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. “Henri, I’m home.”
The maid, Hortense, appeared in her usual spotless uniform. “Madame Richer you’ve finally returned.”
“Where’s Henri?”
A flicker of disapproval flashed across Hortense’s face as she glanced at Alouette’s torn dress. “Monsieur Ric
her has left for the front.”
“No. He couldn’t have gone yet.” Alouette’s eyes filled with tears. “I was trying to get back, but the trains weren’t running from Crotoy.”
The maid handed her an envelope. “Monsieur Richer left this for you.” She gave the slimmest curtsy before she walked away.
Alouette frowned. Hortense had been Henri’s housekeeper for years and she’d clearly never cared for his young wife. Alouette wasn’t sure if it was the vast age difference between Henri and his new bride, her refusal to adhere to the strict rules that governed upper-crust Parisian society, or something else entirely that provoked Hortense’s distaste. Not that it mattered all that much. Alouette always did what she wanted, regardless of who found it unacceptable.
She walked into the parlor and sat down in a plush velvet chair before tearing the envelope open.
My dearest wife,
I was hoping to set my eyes upon your beautiful face one last time before I had to leave for the front, but alas I was called up. I heard that Amiens was now in German control, but I’m not worried. You have gotten yourself out of worse scrapes before and I am confident you will be able to take care of yourself. I know you wish that you could fight this war and while I believe that someday women will be looked at as men’s equals, this is not your time. Please look after the house. I will return soon.
Your affectionate husband
Alouette refolded the letter and put it in a nearby drawer. Henri had volunteered to be an ambulance driver, and she supposed she should be grateful that he wouldn’t be at the front line. And the monotony of military life would probably suit him very well.
As for her on the other hand… what should she do now? Ever since she’d married Henri, her life had been one carefree adventure after another, all financed by her husband’s considerable fortune, including her plane, which was now probably being flown by a French aviator. She stood, casting her eyes around the Victorian-styled parlor. Take care of the house, Henri had written.