Whisper on the Wind (25 page)

Genny put an arm around Clara’s shoulders, but she looked closer to joining her tears than able to offer much comfort.

“What did Fräulein Lassone do for this young man who came to the door?” the Major asked.

“I do not know! I left the room in search of Henri, to have the man put from the grounds. But I do know she gave him bread. I saw what remained on the table after he was gone.”

“A misconstrued act of charity,” Genny whispered.

Edward looked at the Major. “She couldn’t have helped him.”

“It doesn’t matter. If he was indeed an impostor, feeding him was all von Eckhart needed. The Kommandantur has a file on many houses these days. Especially,” he added softly, “on the house of someone who reappeared as Fräulein Lassone did.”

Genny sucked in another sudden breath, followed by a new supply of tears. “What shall we do? How do we get her home?”

Edward folded his arms. “If we can’t bribe her freedom, can we at least bribe a quicker trial date?”

“I don’t know. That depends on the amount of cash you have available.”

Edward nodded, then left the house with the promise to return as quickly as he could. It wouldn’t do to have the Major know there was a stash of valuables in the cellar beneath his feet.

But Edward wasn’t going far. Henri knew where to get both jewels and cash.

23

From those who occupy the land of “poets and thinkers” came this debacle! They have created nothing so noble as their forebears hoped. Indeed, wherever they step, they perpetrate tragedy in blood and ruin upon land made sacred by our loss.

La Libre Belgique

“There he is. Let me go. Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc!”

Isa looked toward the commotion, the first time in two hours that she opened her eyes. She saw a woman, dressed in a simple but tailored gown of the bourgeois class—a bit tattered, perhaps, like most clothing in Brussels these days, but dark, like the gowns all Belgian women wore. A soldier held her but she managed to break free, scurrying at once to the cell down the row. A man met her with arms outstretched, bars hindering their touch.

“Ah, Jean-Luc!
Mon cher
!
” She collapsed against the iron, whimpering.

The soldier pulled her away even as the man in the cell begged him not to hurt her. She fought him, and the soldier had all he could do to drag the woman across the floor—stopping at Isa’s cell.

Another soldier appeared from the stairwell and helped shove the woman inside. The woman only cried, face hidden in her arms.

“Pierrette! Pierrette!”

Isa looked between the two of them. Finally the man’s voice penetrated the woman’s grief and she crawled to the edge of the cell to see the man calling her name.

“Be strong, my Pierrette! We are here together, and together we go. Together, Pierrette!”

She scrambled to her knees. “Yes, Jean-Luc! Together!”

Isa felt like a reluctant voyeur to witness such pain, affection, and intimacy all at once. Pity moved her, made her wish she could appeal to the compassion of those responsible for separating these two. But Isa knew she, least of all, could be of any help.

At last the woman sank to the floor and looked up as if noticing her surroundings—and Isa—for the first time.

“I wish I could offer you a handkerchief,” Isa said, now that the woman seemed exhausted of her tears. “But as you can see, I’m not equipped to offer anything at all.”

The woman brushed her face with her hands. She looked back at the cell down the row, and so did Isa. The man sat on his cot, similar to the one Isa occupied. They were too far apart to converse without shouting.

Isa stood, motioning to the single cot. “Will you be more comfortable here?”

The woman pulled herself to her feet. She was not heavy but rather solid, and her slow movement indicated perhaps she was unused to the exercise she’d put herself through—fighting the guard, shouting, and convulsive weeping.

“Merci
.
”
The cot sagged under her weight. “Oh, but there is only one!” She looked at Isa. “Perhaps one of us will be able to leave soon, with only one cot.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Isa thought the Germans more likely to bring in another cot than let either of them go.

“Why are you here?” Pierrette never looked at Isa as she spoke. Her gaze was riveted to the man down the row.

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what charges they will make up.”

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “Well, I’ve heard it doesn’t matter if they have evidence or not. One German’s word is all they need to put someone away.”

Isa had learned that from Jonah’s experience. “And you?”

The woman lifted her hands as if she didn’t know either. “I cannot say.”

“Do you mean they’ve brought you here for no reason? the same as me?”

The woman gave her a half smile. “I didn’t say that. But there are many ears around here, yes? I’ve no wish to add to whatever crime they think I’ve committed. You see?”

Isa nodded, although the notion of someone listening to every word hadn’t occurred to her. She looked around. The soldiers were out of sight but must be nearby. Only fellow prisoners were close enough to hear their words.

Pierrette gazed at Isa. “I see by the quality of your nightgown that you’re a woman of some means. Or—” she winked—“at least kept by someone as such.”

Isa shook her head. “I’m being held because I refused to accept the attention of a German officer.”

The woman laughed, so different from a few inconsolable moments ago. “If that is all they have, they must be very clever to figure out a way to hold you.”

Isa’s heart raced. If they searched her home, they might come up with enough evidence to cast out all hope. Surely they had nothing against her yet. The Hauptmann’s visit made that clear.

But even if they did search her home, she had complete confidence in the secrecy of that room. Complete.

* * *

“This is Monsieur Painlevé. He is one of the foremost Walloon advocates in Brussels.”

Edward—Father Antoine—sat in Ambassador Brand Whitlock’s plush office at the American Legation as the barrister entered the room.

Monsieur Painlevé was an older man, perhaps sixty, with graying hair and a smile that seemed as comfortable on his face as the pince-nez resting on his nose. “Monsieur Whitlock introduces me as if it were still before the war. As it is, I am nothing more than a prisoner of war. Same as you.”

“Mr. Whitlock says you might help our friend.”

“He’s told me a bit about the trouble,” Painlevé said, “but my help may be nothing more than to give you a better understanding of why I’m unable to help much at all.”

Edward looked between the two men. “Can you represent her?”

“That depends. What is the charge?”

“They say they’re holding her because she helped an Allied soldier. Evidently a spy came to her door posing as an Allied and she gave him something to eat. That is all.”

He looked perplexed. “Usually such offenses are settled without an arrest. A fine, house arrest perhaps. But not imprisonment.”

“There is more,” Whitlock said, looking at Edward. “Tell him the rest.”

“She slapped the face of a German officer—one who tried to take advantage of her. He’s behind this arrest. She is held for no other reason than protecting her virtue.”

The man waved his hand. “No, no, that is not the reason, Father. At least, that will not be the reason claimed in court. She has insulted a German officer. To them, that is enough. The reason behind that slap is irrelevant.”

“This is ludicrous,” Edward said, half to himself. He’d spent the better part of the last eight hours going from contact to contact, hoping to find someone able to work the bribe money he had ready. So far he’d come up with no one. The Kommandantur was as close to bribe-proof as the Major hinted. Edward had been forced to seek the American ambassador in hopes that a more traditional route might succeed.

“I have sat in on many cases in the German courts,” Brand Whitlock said. “They’re not completely without justice. And if anyone can help, it is Monsieur Painlevé.”

Edward looked to the barrister for confirmation, which he seemed reluctant to give. “I will say this: justice can be met there, but it is met inconsistently. At times, the courts are nothing short of a laughingstock, if anyone can laugh these days. But you do have the good luck that your parishioner is being tried in a Brussels court. If she were sent to one of the provinces, say Hasselt . . . well, there would be little hope for fairness, I’m afraid.”

“Is it possible for her to be sent elsewhere, even if she was arrested here in Brussels?”

The man lifted both hands. “With the German army, anything is possible.”

Edward sank back in his chair. He’d come for help and received only more possibilities to worry over.

“In theory,” the barrister continued, “the tribunals were set up to try cases that involved crimes against either the German state or its army. But over the past two years I’ve seen case after case of so-called crimes that can be found in no military penal code—not even a German one. It’s what comes of unlimited power, unfortunately. The army
is
the law. Basically, if a German prosecutor wishes to do away with someone, he may ask for a certain penalty and have it granted.”

“Then what are you allowed to do as a defendant’s advocate?”

“Almost nothing. I am allowed to sit the case—a case, I might add, with which I am allowed no previous counsel. I am usually given the charges as the trial begins. I am not allowed to see clients before that. I am not allowed to bring witnesses for the defense—not that I could find any who would willingly put themselves against a German tribunal. Nor am I permitted to present any real defense with any sort of spirit. It would be viewed as lacking respect for the German court. I am not even allowed to wear my wig or court robes. It is a sham. But now and again the truth won’t be suppressed, as Monsieur Whitlock has said. You can hope for that.”

“Hope? No. That’s not enough.” He wished he could march to Isa’s prison and demand she be set free, demand justice. But he was powerless in a city overrun by those whose definition of justice had somehow been forgotten. “Will you agree to take her case, whenever it will be?”

“Of course—but with one caution,” Painlevé said. “There has been a rumor—a rather serious rumor—that the Germans will decree Brussels a Flemish province. Which means, among other things, that only Flemish will be spoken in the courts. This should not matter in a German tribunal, where they speak mostly German. But they may choose not to recognize my credentials since I am Walloon.”

“Forever trying to separate the two,” Whitlock commented.

The barrister nodded. “And wholly failing, as far as I can see.” He turned his attention back to Edward. “Let me say this, Father Antoine: I am not so sure it matters who represents your parishioner, not as much as it depends on the whim of the court on that day. They may take pity on her—tell me, is she a pretty girl?”

Edward nodded.

“Then they may very well.”

Edward stood. He intended to go back to the church. He’d heard about an
abbé
who might hold information about bribing Kommandantur guards. He didn’t like going to someone he didn’t know firsthand, but desperation made him bold.

Whitlock followed Edward to the door, much to Edward’s surprise. “Father,” he said quietly, when they were alone, “if indeed you are a priest.”

Edward turned to him expectantly. Brand Whitlock was a bit taller than Edward, lankier. He was known for his eloquence in diplomacy, but just at the moment he had a look of pure consternation on his face.

“Tell me one thing before you go,” he said. “You’ve asked for my help before. As I recall in
that
case, someone was legitimately guilty, at least as far as German law goes. Have you gotten Isa involved in any of that?”

Edward knew his face went white; he couldn’t stop the blood that drained away. So, Whitlock remembered Edward as one of those who had come begging mercy for earlier victims of
La Libre Belgique
.

“It’s that way, is it? You’ve put her
life
in danger.”

“While it may be my fault she’s involved, it wasn’t my idea. Have
you
ever tried to change Isa’s mind?”

“Tell me truthfully. Do the Germans know about what she’s involved in? Will that come up in the trial?”

Edward shook his head. “No! I tell you, this is all because of that German officer. She hasn’t done anything other than refuse his advances.”

Whitlock sighed. “As an American I may be on thinning ice with the Germans, young man, but they won’t want to add another international incident by condemning one of my countrymen—a woman no less—to a harsh penalty over something as slight as either feeding a spy or refusing to kiss a German officer.”

“I wish you could promise me that.” Edward left without waiting for a reply. No one could make any promises these days.

24

Recall with me the era before the war, when England called for the peace of all Europe, and Germany called simply for neutrality. While today Germany points the finger at England with the feeble hope of laying blame there, is it not obvious the reason Germany wanted extensive neutrality? Did she hope others would not ally against her when she moved to fulfill her plan to expand? How long, O Germany, have you planned this war?

La Libre Belgique

“He was our only child,” Pierrette whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Isa murmured. Grief was no stranger in Brussels.

Isa dreaded having to spend the night locked in a cell. She’d guessed she must when they’d brought in the second cot, even though part of her had stubbornly hoped otherwise. But at least the Lord had sent her someone to talk to, someone to help speed the time if she wouldn’t be freed soon.

Pierrette glanced at Isa. “Before we knew he’d been killed at the front, I’d have given anything to hear from him. I thought of him day and night, worried and feared. And then, when all those fears became real, I still wished, somehow, that I could hear from him. Crazy, yes? As if he could write to me from the dead!”