Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  “How did you know about this room?”

  He shrugged. “A friend of yours named Vander told me about it. He’s told me a lot of things.”

  I thought of the missing nursing reports. “So Lars is your real name?”

  He grinned. “Yes, my commander shouldn’t have written it down, but he’s inexperienced when it comes to espionage.”

  I frowned.

  “Listen,” he pleaded. “I’ll explain. Just . . . put away the knife.”

  “Hope,” I said, handing her my kerchief, never taking my gaze off Lars. “Help me hang this from the window.” I put my knife back in my pocket and said to him, “Fill your hands with food from the attic and walk down to the kitchen in front of me. You better start talking.”

  LARS SAT AT the table so I could watch him while I chopped potatoes. Hope sat on the floor, engrossed in her lollipop.

  “Is that lollipop from England?” I asked Lars.

  “America.”

  I shot him a skeptical look.

  “My commander, the man who brought me here, met Vander and sent him to the clinic to find me. Vander is now my intermediary. He obtained the lollipop through my English connections.”

  “Why did your commander not come for you himself?”

  “Because he is in prison. But let me start at the beginning.” He repositioned himself. “I spent most of the war at a desk deciphering British military codes. Until the beginning of last year, when my branch sent me to Russia.”

  I considered what he’d already told me. “Isn’t that about the time Czar Nicholas was overthrown?”

  He nodded. “Russians were angry, starving while factions battled each other to form a new government. My branch sent Vladimir Lenin in to seize power, knowing he would be sympathetic with Germany. They sent me to help.”

  “You were part of the Bolshevik Revolution?”

  He shrugged. “Lenin and Trotsky orchestrated that. I infiltrated workhouses, factories, and garrisons speaking out against oppression, garnering support for the revolution. There were strikes, riots, and Lenin won control by the end of the year. I was sent to the Eastern Front.”

  “Now Russia is ravaged by a civil war.”

  Lars put his head in his hands. “They killed the Czar and his children in cold blood. Thousands of Russians are dying.” His voice broke.

  My heart ached, not only for Russia. Guilt was a familiar feeling, and it was palpable in his tone. I tried to redirect him. “What did you do on the Eastern Front?”

  “Lenin couldn’t end the fighting on the Eastern Front fast enough for Germany. They sent me to incite Russian soldiers to surrender.”

  I knew from Marie that many Russians had surrendered at that time. “And when the peace treaty was signed between Germany and Russia?”

  His hands balled into fists. “That is when I learned of my mother’s death in Berlin. Officials said she died of old age, but letters from friends say she gave her rations to a sector of orphans. Starvation killed my mother. My father was shot by the police in a workers’ strike.” He paused to compose himself.

  “Where did you go?” I draped my shawl across a crate for Hope. She curled up on it, rubbing her eyes. It was nearing time for her afternoon nap.

  “To our naval station in Kiel to interpret more codes. But I kept thinking of how desperate my parents must have become to resist before they died in Berlin. I decided the deprivations, the slaughter, the futile fighting, all of it must end. So I turned the tables. I started sowing discontent among German sailors.”

  “In Kiel?” I asked, piecing it together.

  “The admiral started to suspect me. But the sailors wouldn’t rat me out. He could prove nothing to warrant my arrest, so in March he sent me to fight on the Western Front—­a death sentence.”

  “Those sailors in Kiel started the German revolt that is bringing this war to an end!”

  Lars shrugged again. “All revolutions begin with seeds of discord. I told every company of soldiers I met on the Western Front that their lives were worth more than Kaiser Wilhelm’s whims. My commander in the trenches even joined my cause. But we lived under constant shelling, day and night, amid unceasing terror and death without a chance to make our move. After the advance to Amiens, the Allies decimated our ranks over three days of bombardment. That’s when our efforts took hold. Tens of thousands of my comrades laid down their weapons and surrendered. I was shot. I woke up in the Brussels hospital and couldn’t stop shaking and twitching. My commander brought me here to recover. And to hide me from the generals.”

  “Between the soldiers’ mutiny in Kiel and the surrenders at Amiens, they’ve figured out what you’ve done.”

  He gave me a pointed look. “If they find me, they’ll execute me for treason, armistice or not. But they’ll never catch me. I’m leaving as soon as the revolt takes hold in Brussels.”

  Before I could question where he’d go and what he meant about Brussels, we heard gunfire outside.

  I RAN TO Hope, covering her body with my own. She remained fast asleep.

  “Stay here,” said Lars. He crept upstairs, still in his long night shirt and socks. He moved and spoke with such self-­possession, I’d forgotten about his undignified apparel. The sounds of men yelling and the distant rumble of cannon blasts filtered down to the basement. Lars returned within moments.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Vander followed Lars into the basement kitchen, clutching his hat. “Been a long time, Amélie.”

  “Still serving the Belgian cause, I see.” I couldn’t resist smiling.

  Lars nodded to me. “It has begun.”

  “What’s happening?” I stood.

  Vander peeked at Hope, then spoke softly. “The Kaiser abdicated. Much of the German military police in Brussels joined the revolt this morning. Officials throughout the city are ignoring commands. But a strong force of loyalists are tracking down and killing revolutionaries. It’s anarchy in the streets.” He sounded delighted. His one eye sparkled.

  “And the garrison?” Lars asked.

  Vander turned to him. “The guards your commander targeted did as you predicted. They mutinied against their officers. Allied prisoners are being set free as we speak.”

  “Lars.” I suddenly understood. “You and your commander have continued to push a revolution all this time!” The depth of his treasonous efforts awed me, and my respect for Vander soared.

  Lars looked relieved. “The city’s stronghold belongs to the revolutionaries. The German delegation will have no choice but to sign the armistice tomorrow.”

  Vander reached for the stair rail. “Our plans are all in order,” he said firmly to Lars. Then he glanced at me. “As soon as they sign that armistice, King Albert and what’s left of our army will return from the coast hot on the Germans’ heels. Until he arrives, Brussels will be dangerous. Take care of yourself and the little one.” He rushed upstairs.

  I felt torn between his warning and the broken boards over the tea shop window. I must take Hope to Marie’s and go get that painting! “If you’ll excuse me, I must tend to some personal matters before it’s too late.” I moved to wake Hope.

  Lars grasped my arm. “Listen to what’s happening up there.” The air still shook with occasional gunfire and shouts. “The situation in the city has changed. You cannot leave.”

  “I appreciate the work you’ve done to stop this war and set Belgium free, but I must retrieve my belongings from my old home before the Germans start raiding or I’ll have no means to support my daughter.”

  “You cannot go out.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  He leaned closer. “Don’t I? You wear your tension in the way you move. Hatred and pain are in your voice when you talk to your neighbor in the evenings about what you’ve lost.”

  My face flamed with both shame and anger. “
You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you were once a fighter and now you hide. I know how you think because I’ve read the articles you wrote in old copies of La Libre Belgique.”

  I gasped. So few knew I’d been writing articles for La Libre Belgique. But those soldiers had come to the tea shop that night because they’d figured it out. I carried that guilt in my soul.

  “You’ve forgotten your own strength, mired yourself in your own remorse, and now you’re letting anger cloud your judgment. I know how it feels to lose those you love. I don’t intend to let your little girl lose her mother this night. You will wait until the early morning hours.”

  I shook free from his grasp, reeling more than I let him see.

  Hope stirred, and I went to her. “Hello, sleepyhead.”

  “Maman, bake time?”

  I forced myself to smile. “Yes it is. Help me mix the dough, then you can knead it.”

  She helped me measure the ingredients Lars had carried down earlier, and I was grateful for the distraction. Lars returned to the table, a quiet force, a silent conviction.

  At last I broke the silence. “What will you do now?”

  He studied his hands as he spoke. ­“People think the world simply went mad and went to war. But world leaders were grasping up territory, building empires and battleships, and daring other kingdoms to check their power for years. War hasn’t solved the world’s problems. Germany will retreat and pretend they are heroes for protecting the fatherland. They have been stopped, not beaten. There will be another war. Next time, I won’t be on Germany’s side.”

  I watched Hope attempt to knead dough. “Your knowledge goes deeper than what is reported in smuggled newspapers. You have contacts willing to exchange state secrets and share American lollipops.”

  He nodded. “Vander obtained a German officer’s uniform for me to use in my escape. When the armistice begins, I make for Holland. I only lack the proper documents to show at German checkpoints. Once peace is secured, I’ll go to my contacts in En­gland or America.”

  “To stop the next war?”

  “If possible.”

  Hope dumped misshapen dough into a banneton, and I realized I admired Lars. Like him, I’d believed in freedom and justice and moved in subversive circles and risked everything for liberty. The Germans had broken me because of it. Broken, but not defeated. “It will not be easy,” I said.

  “In one of your articles you wrote, ‘The right thing to do is never easy.’ ” He chuckled. “Your articles have been an inspiration while I’ve been closed up in this clinic.”

  I blushed. Then I felt a strange shyness and turned away. Evening approached, and I needed to meet Marie at the wall to secure her assistance for the early morning hours. “Come, Hope, let’s set this aside to rise and go fetch a pear upstairs for your dinner. Soon you shall have a bath and go to bed.”

  “You should both sleep in the secret room come nightfall,” said Lars, standing as we climbed the stairs.

  “We will,” I said softly. I paused to look down. “And . . . thank you.”

  He nodded, and I ushered Hope to the secret room.

  AT DUSK, I took a pear to the garden wall.

  Marie ignored it. “It is nearly over!” she cried. “But it isn’t safe yet. Germans lurk on every street corner aiming to kill each other.”

  “Have you ever noticed a one-­eyed man sneaking over our wall?”

  “Who, Vander? Oh, he’s always about. He shares news and keeps a fierce watch over you.”

  All this time, and I’d been too bogged down by my own guilt and fear to notice. “I need your help.”

  Marie looked worried. “I saw your kerchief in the window and assumed all was well.”

  “There’s something I must do. Will you come over the wall tomorrow morning an hour before dawn to sit with Hope?”

  “I thought you took care of everything today,” she said, dismayed.

  “Please,” I begged. “I’ll give you a day’s rations.”

  “I’ll do it for free, but it isn’t safe for you.”

  “It will be safer in the early morning hours. Will you promise?”

  She agreed and we said farewell. On my way back into the clinic, I spotted Lars looking down. I stopped at the garden shed long enough to find a crowbar and pluck a few withered flowers from the neglected window box. Then I hurried in, for the night would be brief.

  November 11, 1918

  Armistice Day

  THE NOISE OUTDOORS quieted during the night, and I woke long before dawn to study my daughter, wondering if all children slept so peacefully. Perhaps she slept well because I made her feel secure. I would continue doing so for as long as I had breath.

  I opened the door to the secret room and lifted the floorboards. I grabbed the box containing Matron Cavell’s supplies. Lightly kissing my daughter’s curls, I went down to Lars Ludwig’s room.

  He sat at the table with a lit oil lamp and papers before him. He smiled.

  “I brought you these.” I set the box on the table and slid it toward him.

  He studied the scars on my wrists without a touch of surprise in his expression, only concern. With a gentle finger, he traced the raised white lines, then he held my hands.

  Lars knew things about me that I had concealed even from myself. He’d reminded me of my own strength. I wanted nothing more than to let him continue caressing my hands.

  Instead, I hid them under my apron. “The box contains hazy identification photographs and stamps and documents with official watermarks. They belonged to a woman who was like us; she fought for what she believed in. You might find what you need in here.”

  He stood. “Thank you, truly.”

  I nodded. “My neighbor is coming to watch Hope while I take care of something. I imagine you’ll be gone by the time I return.” I must show him how he’s touched my heart. “I wanted to say . . . that is . . . do keep fighting. Be our battles large or small, we must never give up on what is just.”

  “You have my word,” he said tenderly.

  I rushed downstairs, and I let a sleepy-­looking Marie in the back door.

  I CONCEALED MY crowbar under my apron and ran, awkwardly, toward the tea shop. At the military checkpoint, a clutch of uniformed Germans stood around the gun. Were they revolutionaries or loyalists? I pressed myself into the recess of a doorway and prayed they would leave. I prayed again that they weren’t the men Sister Wilkins said were staking out the shop or the ones who’d broken those front boards. It took an age, but they finally walked down the road. I ran again, passing through the neighbor’s gate and scaling the wall. Without pause I attacked the window to the back parlor.

  I panted. Sweat beaded on my forehead and grew cold in the crisp November air. My scabbed cuticles throbbed, and I grunted, thrusting all my weight against the crowbar to ply off the boards, one at a time. Finally I hoisted the window open. I dropped the crowbar and climbed inside.

  It was dark. This time I’d come better prepared. I pulled a candle and matches from my apron pocket and fumbled with them until a soft glow blossomed. I held the candle aloft and looked around. What a mess.

  This was my home, where I’d been born and raised. I pictured my mother playing parlor songs at the piano, which now stood covered in ashes and dust. The chair where my father had smoked a pipe every evening was now torn and stained, with a quiet family of mice nesting in the seat. What I’d come for was toward the front, in the tearoom itself. I fished the poppies I’d plucked the night before out of my pocket and placed one on the piano stool and the other on my father’s chair. I walked out of the parlor before waves of nostalgia overtook me.

  I passed the table the Germans had bent me across to rape me. I passed the spot where Maman’s head wound left a stain on the floor. I passed the place where Papa had fallen after they’d hit him. I passed charred p
iles where the ceiling had caved in. I leaned into the fireplace, glancing at the ashes of the articles I’d burned years earlier in an attempt to eliminate feelings of guilt.

  I reached up into the fireplace, felt around, and grabbed the carefully rolled and wrapped painting. A great sigh of relief rushed out of me.

  When I was little, Maman had confessed she’d nearly sold it once, when she still lived in Paris and her own parents had died. But she soon met Papa, fell in love, and moved to Brussels to be with him. She used to say his house became hers, but my arrival made it a real home. Now I would do as she’d done. I would take this gift she’d given me and make a new home for my sweet daughter. I would even do as Lars and fight for the things I believed in. I’d take up my pen again.

  Suddenly, I heard the strike of a match behind me. “Clever,” said a voice in German.

  I spun around, holding the painting behind me and the candle in front of me. It was him. The German with the strong jaw, sucking on a cigarette.

  “With the flue closed the painting would never get damaged. I regretted not taking it before my comrades lit that fire, and I tore this place apart looking for it after you disappeared. Never thought to look there.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  He huffed. Smoke swirled around him. “I don’t want you, I want that painting.”

  “You—­can’t have it.” Wax dripped from the candle and burned my fingers. A hot hate took hold of me. “You raping, pillaging bastard.”

  He merely shook his head. “You think I was the one who pulled up your skirts? You filthy Belgians killed my father in the Franco-Prussian War. I wouldn’t soil myself with the likes of you. But my comrade ached to slake his lust.” He took a long drag. “You should be thankful. That rape saved you. If it were up to me, I’d have killed you. In fact”—­he threw down his cigarette—­“this time, I will.”

  He lunged for me. I threw the candle at him and thrust my hand into my apron pocket. The candle hit his shoulder. He cursed, swatting the flame, pausing long enough for me to whip open Papa’s penknife.