The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  “I’m fine.” Melbourne was used to curing himself in improvised ways back in the RFC. He took a bite of a slice of bread and winced.

  “No. Come with me, breakfast can wait.”

  Melbourne did not protest and followed Madame to the kitchen where she applied some iodine to his wound. They headed back to the table and finished their breakfast. Not another word was spoken about the incident. Melbourne helped Madame with chores around the house and, when the time came, he left for his rendezvous with Danielle.

  The Place du Grand Sablon housed a series of cafés, hat shops, workshops, and even a warehouse. The area was bustling with life. German soldiers moved among Belgian civilians on errands or other business. The civilians kept to themselves, not even looking at the soldiers in the face. Melbourne followed their example. A small market sat in the middle of the square with all sorts of goods available for purchase. Carts carried sad looking vegetables, while other small tables sold flat and plain homemade cakes. Melbourne walked by as women called onto him, asking him to buy something, anything. He wished he could. A child in dirty clothes ran up to him and asked if he wanted the latest newspaper. He politely declined and continued across the square.

  He looked up at the buildings that enclosed the square. Some were typically Belgian, narrow, yet unique and beautifully designed. Others felt more modern, larger white buildings with tall windows. But they were all dwarfed by the hugeness of the Church of the Blessed Lady of the Sablon. The vast, gothic pile loomed in front of him, taking up the entire opposite side of the square, festooned with statues, spires, and reliefs. The light beige stones seemed to give off a slight glow, despite the menacing, dark clouds that had begun to form in the sky. If the architects had wanted to show off the grandeur of God, then they certainly had succeeded.

  He quickened his pace and reached the grand stone staircase that lead to the main wooden door of the church. And there she was, on the third step from the top, just as she had promised.

  Danielle looked about her. Her long, blonde hair, set off by a small hat, cascaded onto a more sober, dark green dress than she had worn the night before, though it was still in exquisite taste. She spotted him, smiled, and waved. He jumped up to the step she was on and immediately regretted it when a wave of pain made him wince.

  “Well, you look slightly better than last night,” she said.

  “I like your hat,” was all the could say. There goes another idiotic sentence, he thought.

  “Why, thank you. I see someone treated your wound.”

  He touched his stinging lip. “Oh, yes. A friend. Well, more like a friend of a friend. I’m really glad to see you.”

  She smiled and caressed his arm. “Well, welcome to my favourite part of the city.” She spread her arms as if to welcome him to her home. “Have you seen this place before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then come with me.” She took his arm into hers and guided him down the steps of the church. “Can you believe this place was a wetland before all of this was built? Actually, the word sablon means something between silt and sand, so that’s where the name comes from. The area was even used as a cemetery by a nearby hospital, whose name I forget at the moment. It was only in the 14th century that things began changing around here, especially with the building of this church behind us.”

  “Seems like just yesterday,” Melbourne said. “How do you know so many things?”

  “I’m curious. I ask people. But it’s the beauty of it that makes it my favourite place. I sometimes come here and sit inside the church, by myself, to think. It’s so peaceful. All my troubles seem to vanish.”

  Melbourne smiled. He did much the same flying above the clouds on his way back from a mission. Not as quiet, but every bit as isolated and magnificent.

  They walked across the square and approached the market, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells that it offered, such as they were.

  “So, my dear journalist,” she said. “What about that famous interview?”

  Melbourne pulled out his notebook and pencil from the inside of his jacket.

  “Let’s start with the obvious question: what is life like for a singer here under the occupation?”

  She thought about her answer for a few seconds. “It’s certainly difficult. Yet even though I’d rather be somewhere else, like most people, I feel like I’m serving a purpose here. You see, I don’t see myself only as an entertainer. I’m a nurse, a caring and compassionate nurse who cures, even for just a few hours, people’s broken hearts and worried minds through the best medicine there is – music. I see their faces when I sing, and their expressions tell me a lot. They seem happy, calm, and that is something you don’t see anywhere else in this city. You know, this job, it doesn’t pay much, but it allows me to survive”

  Melbourne jotted down all her words as quickly as he could. “Has your life changed in any way since the occupation?”

  She let out a laugh. “In every way. Everything has changed.”

  Okay. He remembered he was supposed to be writing a piece supportive of the Germans. “Do you have good relations with the occupying authorities? They must be happy to see that your music has a healing effect.”

  She laughed again. “You saw how well I got along with them last night.”

  “But surely those men are an exception.”

  She became suddenly sober. “If you’d like.”

  Perhaps he had pushed the pro-German line too far. “Do you see a lot of foreigners at the club?” Perhaps he could get something on his brother.

  “Besides the Germans? Not really. You are the first that I met in there, actually. Are you hungry?”

  The smell of something being cooked nearby made his stomach growl. They stopped at a little stand where a man stood with a big metallic pot, selling onion soup in pale broth for only a few cents. She dug through her purse to find some coins, but Melbourne quickly offered to pay for her. Two soup dishes were handed to them, one containing a sliver of carrot, and two wooden spoons. He handed her the good one.

  To Melbourne it seemed tasteless, little more than water. Danielle ate it ravenously.

  “You know,” she said, “if you’re too poor to pay for the soup here, they give it to you for free. Luckily I haven’t reached that point… yet.”

  They continued their tour of the market, eating their soup, as Danielle recounted some other facts of the square. Once they were done they handed the bowls back to the man and thanked him. The clouds above them began turning more menacing. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  She must know something. Why else would her brother have left hints about her? Maybe his brother had posed as a Belgian, or a German. At that point it wouldn’t surprise him anymore. He had to get something out of her.

  He put away his notebook to show that the official interview was over. “Have you lived here all your life?”

  She let out a quick laugh. “No, I’m actually French, from Paris. Have you ever been to France?”

  Ah, that was why her accent sounded different. “Umm… once,” he answered. “How did you end up here then?”

  Her face turned serious. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.”

  “I have time. And it can be off the record if you’d like.” He wanted to learn more about her.

  She turned to look at him. Her eyes suddenly seemed sad. “Very well. Come on.”

  Taking his arm in hers, they kept walking. “His name was Gaston.” She spoke slowly, almost as if trying to control herself. “We were going to get married. He came from a wealthy family and had just passed his exam to become a lawyer. I, on the other hand, was just a simple girl, but we loved each other dearly, and I was so proud of him for what he was accomplishing. The summer of last year we decided to give ourselves a present, a trip around Europe. He wanted to show me the world before he would get stuck with his job, he said. It was wonderful, probably the finest hours of my life. It seemed as if everything was possible with Gaston, the world was at our fingert
ips. We spent several weeks in Barcelona, then Nice and Venice, before finally arriving here in Brussels in August.

  “Voices everywhere were saying that a war was breaking out through Europe, but we foolishly ignored them. Nothing was going to happen if we stuck to each other. And we were wrong. We woke up here, one morning, to find that the Germans had invaded Belgium. We saw them marching through the streets here, thousands of them.

  “We quickly packed our bags and tried getting out of the country that very day, but the trains were all full. We decided to try the next day, but by then it was too late. Gaston was arrested for being too aggressive with a German soldier. They detained him for an entire month. I wasn’t going to leave without him. They eventually let him go but we were without money, and all exit routes had been blocked.” She shook her head, frowning. “We were so foolish, Remy. So foolish.”

  By then, they had left the Place du Grand Sablon and were now walking on a long side street that led to the Palais de Justice.

  “What happened next?” Melbourne asked.

  “We were stuck under German occupation. Life wasn’t easy but we tried making the best of it. One night, Gaston came to me and said he had found someone who could sneak us into Holland, and from there we could return to France. It was going to be dangerous, but it was also going to be worth a try. I was scared but I agreed and we met a group of people at the Forêt de Soignes, a forest just outside of the city. Those men belonged to the Resistance. Many more joined us, wanting to escape the violent mess their country had turned into. We hid in the back of a wagon, under a large blanket behind some boxes, and headed off into the night.

  “Something went terribly wrong, I don’t know exactly what. But when we arrived at the outskirts of Brussels, we heard the driver talk animatedly with some Germans. I prayed with all my heart that they wouldn’t find us. I was so damn scared. Then we heard a scream and a thud, as if someone had been hit. Then silence. I couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, but I could hear the others breathing heavily. We were all so tense.

  “The flaps of the back of the wagon were opened, and a light from a gas lamp shone in. The Germans boarded it and began searching. We were doomed.

  “It took little effort to find us. We were all pulled out of the wagon by force. They slammed us on the ground, told us to stay on our knees with our hands behind our head. I remember that there were four German soldiers, each with a rifle in his hands. I stood as close as I could to Gaston. I was more scared that they would hurt him than me. Then, one of our companions launched himself against one of the soldiers, slamming him against the wagon. The soldier’s rifle went off and hit the leg of another nearby soldier. Another companion launched himself towards the third soldier. Gaston got up and grabbed me, telling me to run. The rest of us began running as fast as we could. I could hear rifle shots echoing through the trees behind us, following us.

  “We ran, and ran. The soldiers ran after us, shooting. Gaston was next to me. We were running hand in hand when all of a sudden he stopped.”

  They had reached a large terrace overlooking the entire city from above. The Palais de Justice towered on their left side.

  Danielle leaned against the parapet of the terrace. The wind softly blew in her face, moving her hair gently to its rhythm. Her blue eyes seemed icy, cold. The sweet, smiling Danielle was no more. She pulled her cigarette holder from her purse and placed a cigarette inside it. The sun timidly began shining through the dark clouds; the thunder just a distant memory by now. She lit her cigarette and blew out a long, grey cloud of smoke. Her eyes looked into the distance.

  “I will never forget his expression,” she said. “It was as if he had suddenly remembered something. There was a single bead of sweat running down his cheek. He turned to look at me and whispered ‘run’. Then, he fell on the ground. I saw his back was soaked in blood. I screamed and cried, trying to get him to get back up. Then I turned, and I ran, as fast as I could. A few of us managed to lose the Germans. Others got caught. My Gaston was gone. Dead. Shot in the back by one those Boche you admire so much.”

  She blew a smoke ring in his face.

  He didn’t even bother to wave the smoke away. “I… I am so sorry, Danielle.”

  She shrugged. “Not your fault, I suppose. Life is cruel, Remy. Cruel and unfair.”

  They remained silent for some time, looking out at the city beneath them.

  “That is how I turned into La Baronne. With nowhere to go, I had to find some way to survive. The only thing I was good at was singing. Le Rossignol Chanteuse took me in, and the rest is history. It was either that or being a grand-horizontale.”

  She could see Melbourne’s blank look and lowered her voice. “A whore. So that is my story. Not a very happy one for your article I’m afraid.”

  “I feel for you,” Melbourne said.

  “How so?”

  “Because I lost my brother not too long ago.”

  He felt a delicate hand touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, my friend.”

  Melbourne looked out at the red roofs of the city. “I feel like I don’t know him anymore. It’s… bizarre. I still feel like it’s all a dream, just some terrible nightmare that I’m going to wake up from any minute. And it will all be alright. My brother will still be alive. I miss his smile.”

  “The war took him.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Melbourne decided to answer it anyway. “Yes, the war took him. He died…” He caught himself. “On the Front. Yes, he died on the Front.”

  She sighed a loud one. “We are survivors, Remy. Every day we survive missing the people that this war took away from us.” She blew out another smoke ring and ran a finger around it.

  “Do you know what we need?” he asked.

  She turned to look at him, her blue eyes puzzled.

  “A good, steaming cup of hot chocolate. Any places around here where we can get ourselves one?”

  Danielle tried to suppress a laugh. “Remy, where do you think we are. This isn’t London, you know.”

  “Then allow me to buy you another round of that exquisite soup. We can pretend that it’s hot chocolate.” He winked at her.

  She smiled and took in one last puff of smoke before extinguishing the cigarette on the parapet of the terrace. “I’m glad I met you, Remy. You’re a good man.”

  He smiled at the thought that he had something in common with her. Until he realised he already had. Henry. The nightingale with the broken wings and heart had yet to sing to him the song he wanted to hear. And time was running out.

  “So… soup?” she said. “I mean, hot chocolate?”

  “Yes, of course.” He extended a hand towards her which she took instantly.

  Bloody hell, Henry, what did you have to do with her?

  XVII

  The hour hand of the large clock on the wall of the Esmond’s living room nudged forward with an audible click. Melbourne looked up and saw the time; it was midnight, the real midnight, not the German version of it. He leaned back against the chair and rubbed his sleepy eyes. Before him, on the dinner table, were spread the strips of burned and ripped paper that he had found in his brother’s old rented room. He had placed them neatly one next to the other, as if that helped in making any sense of them.

  He had spent the rest of the day with Danielle. She told him more stories of Brussels, of herself, while he invented a life in Switzerland for her. What would she think when she found out the truth?

  And why did he care so much? He couldn’t afford distractions, but he also could not get his mind off of her. How was she involved in this affair? Maybe he’d gotten the wrong nightingale, but Danielle had told him she was the only singer in the club so far. There was something he couldn’t see, couldn’t quite make out.

  But he had to admit, when he was with her, he felt alive, like he hadn’t felt in a long time. The war had taken something away from each of them.

  His gaze moved back down to the pieces of poems spread before him. The more he s
tared at them, the murkier they became.

  They were connected to Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known, yet how was beyond him. The stanzas were all from the Romantic Movement – the use of language told him that – and he was sure he’d seen them somewhere, most likely with his brother. But no matter how much he dug into his memory, he came up with nothing.

  He picked up one of the strips.

  Fix deep the bright exemplar in thy heart:

  To friendship’s sacred call with joy attend,

  Where had he seen it?

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Melbourne looked up to see Monsieur Esmond standing in the doorway of the living room. He walked in, moving cautiously, his walking stick sustaining him along the way.

  “I thought you might still be up.” He pointed at the chair next to Melbourne. “May I?”

  Melbourne nodded and Monsieur Esmond fell into it. He looked down at the strips. “What is all of this?”

  “Fragments of poems I found in my brother’s room. I’m hoping they’ll lead me to the answer I am looking for.”

  “I see. And have you found it?”

  “No.” Melbourne sank back in his chair. He realised he was exhausted. “Not yet.”

  “Everything takes time.”

  They sat in silence, staring at the slips of paper. The quiet was broken by the sound of growling.

  Monsieur Esmond placed a hand on his stomach. “Excuse me.”

  “You had no dinner?”

  “Well, one of us did,” he said. “We had too little food tonight. I gave up my portion to my wife – over her objections, of course, but I won in the end.”

  Melbourne smiled. “You must love her dearly.”

  “I do. She is my life. If I could bring her away from here, give her a new life, a better one, I would in a heartbeat. But she wants to stay. ‘Things will get better,’ she says. ‘The Germans can’t stay forever.’ I don’t understand her optimism sometimes, but it doesn’t matter. I do whatever makes her happy.”