An Owl's Whisper

by Michael Smth

  Eva stopped attending classes that spring. “I’ll be walking,” she’d say. She wrote nothing in her notebook—didn’t even take it when she went out. Rather than walking, she spent most of those lovely spring days of 1943 sitting, singing softly, on an uprooted tree at the edge of a small, secluded, riverside meadow of grass and buttercups. The L-shaped meadow was nestled in the woods between Lefebvre and St. Sébastien, and a dozen meters of its perimeter boldly reached into the mighty Meuse and resolutely bent its flow. Resolute, Eva thought, and she called the spot, Mother’s Elbow.

  It was there, in April, that Eva decided to leave St. Sébastien.

  Part II Peccavi

  The Führer’s Eyes

  Eva didn’t ask Henri if she could leave St. Sébastien. She told him, “I’m going.”

  “I understand your request.” Henri lit a black cigarette. “Probably for the best.”

  “You could have saved her.” Tears doused the fire in her eyes. “Could’ve saved me.”

  “We’ve gone over this before. I was away and didn’t get your message till too late. And what do you mean, ‘Saved you?’ You’re fine.” Henri smiled nervously and winked at her. “You’re guilt-free.” He took a deep drag, threw his cigarette to the ground, and snuffed it out. “Weibel was a fool. Himmler and his damn SS—all polish and parades but no brains, I’ve always said. Clearly Mother Catherine was itching to play the martyr and she had to go, but—”

  “Mother was a saint,” Eva shouted. “At her worst moment she was miles better than you or me. At our best!” She crossed her arms and turned her back to Henri.

  Henri grabbed Eva’s shoulder and spun her back to face him. “Mother Catherine was a dolt who threw away her insignificant life for a trifle. Bonehead Weibel should have done his dirty work with a pistol shot, delivered deep in the forest, or a tumble down a flight of stairs. But he’s paying for his stupidity now, up to his ears in Soviet snow.”

  Eva glared at him. “Like Krebs?”

  “I—” Henri’s eyes fluttered. He looked away. “—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The boy I walked with. The German boy. The one you sent to Stalingrad.”

  Henri turned back and grabbed Eva’s wrist. “Look, there’s no room in this world for those in the way. As there’s not for those who oppose us.” He twisted her arm until she winced. “Nor even for our own, if they botch their duties. You’d best understand that, young lady. For the sake of your skin, forget Mother Catherine and remember you exist only to serve the Third Reich.”

  Eva jerked her wrist from Henri’s grip and spun away again. “I’ll never forget Mother!”

  Henri stepped just behind her back. “Careful, child! We all regret the unfortunate event in Lefebvre, but since then, your attitude’s been intolerable. I won’t put up with it. Perhaps a change will straighten you out, so I’ll consent to your request to leave school.” He put his hand gently on her shoulder and sighed. “Come now, Eva. Much has been invested in you. In your training. Great responsibility has been given you. Great faith—”

  Eva twisted from his grasp. “Sometimes I think great faith has been betrayed.”

  “You think?” Henri’s lips curled in a snarl. “No! You are eyes! Invisible Eyes. My eyes.” He shook his fist. “The Führer’s eyes, ungrateful girl! Eyes don’t think. They only see.” He relaxed his shoulders and the show of anger instantly fled his face. “I’ll concede you’ve served the cause well. Listen, how about if I find you a new place in the area where bad memories can fade? Where your important work can continue.”

  “Fine, do that.” Eva was thinking only of biding her time and foiling a spider.

  One early May afternoon, Henri took Eva to her new lodging. From the back seat of the Mercedes phaeton, pulling up the rutted drive, she viewed the house and barn. Dark and quiet, they looked vacant. The house was tiny, almost like a child’s playhouse.

  As the car halted in front of the porch, an old woman shuffled through the door. Bulging eyes dominated her ovoid face.

  Behold the donkey, Eva thought. Madame Ass.

  A cigarette drooped from the woman’s lips like a stalk of clover dangling from an equine mouth. She wiped her hands vigorously on her apron and removed the cigarette just long enough to call over her shoulder. “Louis, they’ve arrived.”

  Henri jumped from the car and bounded to the porch, pulling Eva along behind. He shook the woman’s hand heartily. “Ah, Greetings, Madame Ducoisie. Nice to see you again.” Henri pulled Eva to the fore. “May I present my niece Eva?”

  Eva curtsied.

  The old woman eyed her as she might a purchase she was considering, say a ham hanging in a charcuterie window. Madame Ducoisie said, “A city girl, your uncle tells me. Well, you can’t expect city luxuries here in the country!”

  Eva lowered her eyes. “No, Madame.”

  The woman crossed her arms. “In autumn we have the apple harvest and cidering. It’s real work! Other times you’ll have kitchen chores and tending the animals. If I can get him out here, my husband will show you your chamber in the barn loft.” She turned and screeched, “Louis! Monsieur Messiaen is here with the girl. Louis! Get up!”

  A minute later Louis Ducoisie appeared at the door, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin and blinking his rheumy eyes. The man’s face was as round as his wife’s was long. He was shoeless and wore shabby pants with suspenders over a stained, long-sleeved undershirt.

  Henri avoided a handshake, rather putting Eva in front of himself like a shield.

  Henri’s driver, Pruvot, had unloaded Eva’s suitcase from the phaeton’s boot. He stood next to the car holding a large box of provisions. Madame Ducoisie eyed the box conspicuously. “Louis, put on some shoes and show Mademoiselle to her chamber. Monsieur Messiaen, may I offer you a refreshment?”

  Eva walked with Monsieur Ducoisie to the ramshackle barn. Pruvot left the box on the porch and followed, carrying the suitcase. Eva was thinking, Ah, every girl’s dream! Living like a goat, sharing a tired old apple farm with a pair of tired old crows. Still it’s better than St. Sébastien, with its nightmares and memories.

  Back at the farmhouse after seeing the corner of the loft where she would sleep, Eva sat listening to Henri complain about the occupation and watching the Ducoisies nod in agreement as they devoured a sampling of the food and drink her uncle had brought. After a half hour, Henri looked at his pocket watch. “Oh my! So late already? I must away.” He popped to his feet.

  Before climbing into his Mercedes, Henri took Eva aside and slapped an English-language phrasebook into her hand. “Study this. Discretely. And you—shape up!”

  Smithwycke

  The summer of 1943 became Eva’s season of independence. With the harvest and cidering months off, farm work was limited. Uncle Henri was usually away or distracted and unable to influence her activities much. Eva spent most of those summer days sitting on her log at Mother’s Elbow and daydreaming of going away—to Africa or perhaps The Argentine—just somewhere away.

  Eva took Monsieur Ducoisie’s old shotgun on occasion and brought game home for dinner. The day Eva bagged two quail, Monsieur Ducoisie said incredulously, “My gracious, child, how do you do it? I’m such a bad shot the game feels safe sipping cider with me.”

  Eva shrugged. “Instinct, I suppose—I never really think about aiming. It’s like my eye is connected directly to my trigger finger. But maybe more important than the shooting, I think, is the seeing. Others walk through the woods and see just trees and brush. But I see it all. The quail frozen in the thicket. The rabbit quaking under the bush. The squirrel peeking around the trunk. I know they are there before I see them. Perhaps I smell them. Smell their fear.”

  A delightful couple of weeks—Belgians call it Summer’s Golden Tail—often stitches itself to the rump of summer. These days are the earth’s last exultant dance before the unmistakable decline of autumn slips into the death of winter.

  On one bright morning in the Golden Tail of
1943 huntress Eva, walking through the woods not far from Mother’s Elbow, once more smelled fear. There was a man. A man hiding. Frightened. Out of place. His fear filling the air. She’d seen the open-backed truck dropping off soldiers in pairs, some with dogs, along the road and figured they were looking for someone. Now she knew they were looking for him.

  Eva could have gone on—could have pretended she hadn’t seen him. Gone on and later sounded the alarm. Done what was expected of her. But after Mother’s death, she wouldn’t be doing what was expected.

  Eva turned to face the man. “I can help you. There are Germans nearby. Looking for you.”

  The man crouched in the tall brush. Frozen. Head low. Eva saw his eyes peering from beneath his leather cap bill. And she saw the large revolver he pointed at her.

  Eva tilted her head to the side. “Do you understand my French?”

  The long-faced man gave up any notion that he hadn’t been spotted and stood.

  “Do you understand my French?” Eva repeated.

  The man replied in halting French, “I understand a bit.” He continued in English, “I need to get through the German lines. I have money if you’ll help.”

  He limped into the clear, and Eva gasped at the large liver colored stain spilling down his khaki pants from the hip. “You’re hurt.” She stared at the pistol, still menacing her. “You don’t need that. I want to help.”

  The man lowered the muzzle and replied in his French, “Pardon me, young lady. I’m a British airman. Shot down on raid. I’m called Smithwycke.” The pilot checked some writing on the back of his hand. “In a village called Esneux, there are people who’ll help me. I have Deutsch Marks. Do you know Esneux?”

  “Yes I know Esneux. It is east of this place, along the River Ourthe.”

  In his excitement, the airman reverted to English. “Yes, that’s it, on the Ourthe. Getting there might be a spot of bother. Chip of flack’s bit me on the arse, I’m afraid. Bled like a bugger, but it’s stopped now, so I can’t grumble.” Seeing the confused look on Eva’s face, explained in French. “I’ve been wounded. Much walking is difficult.”

  “My name is Eva Messiaen. I know only a little English. Maybe I can help get you to Esneux, but travel must be at night. I saw many German searchers earlier. You must hide until this evening. Come with me now.”

  Eva took the airman to Mother’s Elbow. At the edge of the clearing, she helped the man sit, leaning on the trunk of her downed tree. He was thanking her when they heard the barking. It was not far off.

  “You must be hidden,” Eva said. She pulled the man up and pushed him to the crater that was left when the storm blew the tree over, roots and all. “Lie down in the earth. I’ll bring branches for covering.”

  Eva ran to the copse of leafy saplings growing in the mud on the riverbank. She uprooted three of them and ran back to the crater. The barking sounded closer. She tossed two of the trees on the airman and propped up the third, over the others. “Now, shh,” she said with a finger to her lips. She ran to the crown of the tree just as two gray-clad German soldiers with a dog appeared at the opposite edge of the clearing.

  The dog was barking excitedly and straining on the leash so wildly that Diener, the slight soldier at the other end of the lead had to lean backward to keep control. “Stupid dog, it is just a little girl,” he bellowed in German.

  The second soldier was good looking and young. He carried his rifle casually on his shoulder, holding it by the barrel. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lip. The handler’s difficulty seemed to amuse him. He pushed his helmet back on his head and eyed Eva for a moment, then he removed his cigarette. “Not that little,” he leered.

  Eva stepped toward the men. “You frightened my little dog, Caspie. He ran away. Did you see him? Do you speak French?”

  Diener, the dog handler, said, “We no French talking. German only, Hure.”

  Eva hesitated. The dog was still snarling and straining on the leash. It looked as if it might lunge free at any instant. Have to do something, Eva thought. She grimaced and said in fluid German, “Yes, I know some German.” She scowled. “And I am shocked to be addressed by you as whore, which I am certainly not. A soldier of Germany should know better than to speak so.” The stern tone went girlish when she continued. “I said only that you frightened my dog. He ran away. Perhaps you would help me find him since it was your dog that frightened him away.”

  Diener gave a mighty jerk on the leash as he huffed, “Geist!” It barely moved the dog, but did quiet it. The handler nodded stiffly. “You must excuse my tongue, Fräulein,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know you are German-speaking.” He cleared his throat. “We engage official business, searching for an English, a downed pilot. We have no option to seek for a civilian’s pet dog—” He smiled. “—Much as I regret being unable to help one speaking such fine German.” His formality returned. “What account brings you in these woods today, meine Fräulein?”

  “No business, sir,” Eva replied demurely. “I’ve just been walking with my little dog, Caspie. I live at the small apple farm on the other side of the road.” With a flounce, she pointed in the direction of the Ducoisie place.

  The dog resumed barking. Clearly embarrassed, Diener tugged at the leash. He glared at the dog and growled, “Geist. I said quiet!” He shook his head. “This dog!” He turned back at Eva. “You have perhaps seen anyone suspicious on your walk today?”

  Eva replied, “Not at all, sir.”

  The other soldier, Neinstadt, eyed Eva like a cat on a windowsill, watching a wren. With a cocky smile, he slinked forward. “Maybe I could help you find your little friend, Strudel. All I ask in return is a smile. Well, maybe a little something else, if I find your pup.” He ran his tongue over his lips.

  Playing the shocked little girl, Eva put fingers to her mouth and took a step back.

  The dog handler raged at his partner, “Neinstadt, put that tongue back in your head and keep it there. Try to remember you are a soldier of the elite Reichstag Division, Karlheinz Müller! A lousy soldier, but one none the less.”

  “Shit-for-brains Müller jumps on a grenade to save his comrades in some muddy Ypres trench and they make a saint of him, for Christsake. What did it get the poor stiff?” Neinstadt spat. “A Wehrmacht division named in his honor and a medal sent to his mother. Think Müller’d say that was worth having his guts blown over half of France? Take your loyalty to Führer and fatherland and shove it up your ass, Diener. All I care about’s getting home in one piece.”

  Diener eyed Neinstadt with contempt, then he shook his head and turned to Eva. “Please disregard my most churlish comrade, Fräulein. If you see a suspicious person, make a report immediately.” He clipped the leash to his belt and took out a notebook. “Now, describe your small dog. If we find him I will personally bring him to your house. Your name?” He stepped toward Eva. And toward the hidden airman.

  Eva knew she had to do something and that it had better be good. She skipped ahead to meet the soldier. “My name is Eva Messiaen. I live just there.” She pouted her lips and pointed again. “If you see him, you’ll know my little dog Caspar. He has no nose.” Eva paused. “I think now you’re wondering, how does this dog with no nose smell? I’ll tell you.” She paused again—longer this time. She had the soldier frozen in his tracks. Eva broke into a smirk. “Terrible!”

  Diener cocked his head and stroked his chin, letting her description sink in. Then he erupted in beer-hall laughter. With difficulty, he managed to snort, “Fräulein! ‘Terrible.’ It is a good one. So, I will look for a little dog, especially one with no nose.”

  A moment later, the handler stiffened, as if he rued his familiarity with a civilian. He snapped, “We regret your inconvenience, Fräulein. Neinstadt, we go.”

  The handler took the leash and jerked it, commanding Geist to heel. Off they went.

  As the Germans departed, Eva made a show of calling, “Casper! Casper! Here boy.” When Geist turned a cold eye back to Eva before disappearin
g into the trees, she stuck out her tongue.

  Eva strolled casually back to the overturned tree’s base. She paused just long enough to whisper to the airman, “It’s too dangerous to move you now. I’ll be back after dark.”

  Shipped Home in a Coffin

  Eva hurried back from Mother’s Elbow to the farm. She was preparing a lunch of sorrel soup, coarse bread, and a bit of goat cheese, when Madame Ducoisie said, “Out again this morning, were you? You won’t have the luxury to gallivant when cidering comes, you know.”

  Eva didn’t look up from her work. “I know, Madame.”

  “I looked for you this morning. There’s mending to be done. You can’t expect me to do it, can you? With these eyes! And my fingers. Well, can you?”

  Eva sighed. “No, Madame. I’ll do the mending this afternoon. First I have to take care of something in the village.”

  Madame raised an eyebrow. “Something?” Her head tilted. “What something?”

  Eva thought for a moment. “Oh, Uncle asked me to run an errand for him, but if you’d rather I don’t go—”

  “Oh, no, no, no. By all means, go. Monsieur Messiaen is such a generous man.”

  After lunch Eva jumped on her bicycle and pedaled the six kilometers to town. In the café, she spied Monsieur Micheaux, who on occasion had delivered food and fuel to St. Sébastien for her uncle. Micheaux had a truck and a permit to collect scrap metal for recycle in Germany. In addition to that legitimate business, he worked the black markets, normally on a scale much smaller than what he did for Henri.

  Eva came up to Micheaux. “I want to talk to you. In private. It’s business.”