by Maureen Lang
“I came because of you—you and your family. And because this is my home.”
His grip loosened, then tightened again. He brought his face close, and Isa’s pulse pounded at her temples. But there was no romance in his eyes. They were so crazed she couldn’t look away if she wanted to.
“Isa,” he said, low, “I’m asking you to go back.”
Her heart sped. “Only if you come out with me,” she whispered. Then, because that seemed to reveal too much and yet not enough, she added, “After we get your mother and Jonah.”
He dropped his hands and turned away, facing the grassland instead of the trees.
She could tell him what she had hidden inside her flute; surely that would change his mind about the wisdom of her actions. But something held her back. If she gave it to him now, he might simply accept the flute but return her to the border anyway. No, she wouldn’t reveal her secret. Not yet.
Isa picked up her satchel and started walking—deeper into Belgium, away from the grassland, into the wood that no doubt served a nearby village. Beneath her skirt and blouse, the other goods she carried tightened her clothes so she could barely breathe, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back.
Before long she heard Edward’s footfall behind her. At first they did not speak, and Isa didn’t care. Her journey had ended the moment she saw his face. This was where she’d longed to be. She’d prayed her way across the Atlantic, escaped the wrath of her brother and all those he worked with. Days of persuasion led to downright begging, until she’d tried going around them and contacted Brand Whitlock, the American ambassador to Belgium, to arrange her passage home to Brussels.
But her begging had accomplished nothing.
Yet her journey had not ended there, thanks to the whispered advice of a clerk who worked in Folkestone with her brother. When Charles went off on an errand, another man approached her and spoke the name of a guide who started Isa on the final leg of her journey to Edward’s side.
“We’re coming to the village road,” Edward said flatly. “I was told your papers would give your name as Anna Feldson from Brussels, which match mine as John Feldson. We are cousins, and I am bringing you home from visiting our sick grandmother in Turnhout. There is a German sentry on the other side of this village, and we’ll no doubt be stopped. There won’t be anyone on the street at this hour, which is a good thing because even the locals won’t trust us. Nobody likes strangers anymore, especially this close to the border. So if we do see anybody, keep to yourself and don’t say a word.”
She nodded. A few minutes later the trees parted and she saw shadows of buildings ahead. The rain had let up to a drizzle again, and the moon peeked out to give them a bit of light. She wasn’t soaked through but knew a wind would send a chill, especially now that the anxiety of crawling through the underbrush was behind them.
Edward stopped. “I’m only going to ask once more, Isa, and then I’ll not ask again.” Now he turned to look directly into her eyes. “We have enough darkness left to make it safely. Let me take you back to the border.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. When the crease between his eyes deepened, she said, “This is where I belong, Edward. It must be where God wants me, or I never would have succeeded.”
“God.” He nearly snorted the word before he turned from her and started walking again toward the village.
“Yes!” She hurried to catch up. “If I told you all the ways He’s protected me so I could get this far, you wouldn’t doubt me.”
Edward turned on her. “I refuse to hear it, Isa. God’s not in Belgium anymore; you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.”
His words stung. God had used Edward to show her His love to begin with, and she knew He wasn’t about to let Edward go. Had Edward let go of God, then? When? And why, when he must need God more than ever if things here were harder than she had imagined?
They walked through the quiet village without incident, the soft leather soles of their wet shoes soundless on the cobbles. The village was so like many others of Belgium: a few small homes made of familiar brick, a stone church with its tall bell tower, and a windmill to grind grain into flour. So different from the frame homes or sprawling businesses Isa had left behind in New York, but so dear that she wanted to smile as deeply as Edward frowned.
At the other end of the narrow village street, there was indeed a German officer stationed on the road. Isa’s heart thudded so loudly in her ears she wondered if she would be able to hear over it, or if the soldier would hear it too.
But he said nothing, not a word, at least not to her. He looked at them, looked at their papers, then asked Edward in rather bad French why they were traveling so early in the morning, having come so far from Turnhout already.
Edward replied that the steam tram was unreliable but that they hoped to reach the next village in time to catch it anyway.
The soldier waved them through.
“That was easier than I expected,” Isa whispered once they were well away.
“Don’t underestimate other soldiers based on that one. A suspicious one with a rifle can do as he pleases.”
But Isa was too relieved to be gloomy. “Amazing how I can still understand you through your clenched jaw, Edward.”
Edward didn’t look at her. “We have to be in Geel in less than an hour if we expect to make the tram.”
They made their way in silence, under sporadic drizzle and meagerly emerging sunlight. When at last they came to the next town, it was quiet until they reached the tram station, where soldiers outnumbered civilians. So many soldiers did what the rain couldn’t: dampened Isa’s spirits.
She had a fair understanding of German, but she could barely keep up. Not that she needed to; the soldiers ignored her, speaking of mundane things to one another, hardly worthy of interest. She prayed it would stay that way, that she and Edward would be invisible to each and every armed soldier.
A commotion erupted from the front of the platform. German commands, a snicker here and there. Silence from the civilians.
A man not much older than Edward was forced at gunpoint to open the packet he carried, to remove his coat and hat, even his shoes. A soldier patted him from shoulder to ankle.
Isa could barely watch and wanted more than anything to turn away. To run away. She told herself to look elsewhere, to allow the victim that much dignity, but was transfixed by the sight of such a personal invasion. Her throat tightened so that she couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. She couldn’t possibly withstand such a search, and not just for modesty’s sake. “Edward . . .”
“Keep your eyes down and don’t say a word.”
“But—”
“Quiet.”
A tram entered the station and the man was allowed to board, everyone else soon following. Edward nudged Isa and they took seats.
The secret goods beneath Isa’s cloak and clothing clung to her skin, as if each sheet, each letter were as eager as she not to be noticed. She feared the slightest move would sound a rustle. Carefully, slowly, she stuffed her satchel beneath the seat, wanting to take comfort that it had escaped notice. If her flute was looked at with any scrutiny . . . She couldn’t bear to think of it.
The vehicle rumbled along far slower than the pace of Isa’s heartbeat. She wanted the luxury of looking out at the land she loved, the fields and the villages, the rooftops and steeples, the mills and the farms, but her stomach didn’t allow her eyes to enjoy any of it. At each stop a few soldiers departed, but new ones joined them. She tried not to study what went on, at least not conspicuously, but longed to learn how the soldiers chose which civilians to search. It appeared entirely random. More men were searched, but women weren’t spared. One holding a baby was made to unswathe her child, who screamed and squirmed when jostled from its secure hold.
Isa did as Edward told her, kept quiet, eyes cast downward or upon the passing landscape that under any other circumstances would have been like a gift from the finest art palette. One hour, then two. Aft
er the third she could stand it no longer. Surely they were near their destination? But she had no idea how far Louvain might be at the rate they were going with so many stops and searches. No doubt they could travel more safely by foot without losing much time.
Six times she nearly spoke, to urge Edward to take her out of this tram. Six times she held back. But one more search and she could resist her impulses no more.
“I—I must get off the tram, Edward. I’m sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yes, I must get away from—” She wanted to say away from the soldiers but dared not in case any of them spoke French and overheard. “I must get away from this awful tram. The stop and go is making me ill.”
“Another hour. Surely you can last?”
She shook her head even as from the edge of her vision she saw a soldier looking her way. How do you not look guilty when you’re completely, utterly, culpable?
Isa stood as the tram came to a slow stop at the next intersection. She kept her back to the soldiers, jumping to the ground just as soon as it was safe to do so. Then, without waiting for Edward, she walked forward as if she knew exactly where she was going.
She walked a block, well out of sight from the disappearing tram. There she stood . . . not amid one of the lovely villages, with their ancient way of life so quaintly preserved and appreciated. Instead, she found herself at the end of a row of destruction. Crumbling homes, demolished shops. Burned ruins of a town she once knew. Aerschot, where she’d dined and laughed and dreamed of walking the street with Edward’s hand in hers.
A moment later Edward’s shadow joined hers. “Are you positively mad?”
“We’re in Aerschot?” she asked, barely hearing his question.
“Obviously. And several hours’ walk from Brussels. Do you know how ridiculous that was? We don’t need any complications, Isa.”
She faced him. “Your contact didn’t tell you what I’d be carrying, did he?”
Suspicion took the place of the anger on his face. “What?”
“Well,” she began slowly, “I would try to show you, but among other things, I’m afraid I’d never get everything back in place.”
He let out what she could only call a disgusted sigh as he ran a hand through his dark hair—hair that seemed thinner and yet sprang instantly back into place, symmetrical waves that framed his forehead, covered his ears. He needed a haircut, but she found she liked the way he looked too much to think of changing anything, even the length of his hair.
“Isa, Isa,” he said, shaking his head all the while. “I should make you take out every scrap and burn it right here and now. Do you know what could have happened if you’d been searched on that tram?”
“Which is why we’re no longer on it.”
“You might have warned me!”
“I tried!”
He paced away, then turned to stand nearly nose-to-nose with her again. Not exactly the stance she’d dreamed of when she’d imagined him at such close proximity, but it sent her pulse racing anyway.
“You could have been shot. Do you know that? Shot.”
She nodded. “They warned me.”
His brows rose and his mouth dropped open. “Then why did you agree to the risk?”
“Gourard told me there are no newspapers, no information at all about what the rest of the world is doing to try to save Belgium and end this war. How have you lived so long without knowing what’s going on? I have the best portions of a couple of recent newspapers. And I have letters, too. Letters from soldiers. Don’t their families deserve to know they’re all right?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Gourard shouldn’t have taken your life so lightly or trusted such things to a young, naive child.”
“Child! I’m perfectly capable of deciding what risks I will or won’t take. I’m the one to decide what I will or won’t do for Belgium.”
“It was bad enough for you to come back, but to bring contraband—it’s beyond foolish.”
“Edward, don’t be angry with me. I’ll deliver the letters and then be done with it if you like, if it’s too dangerous for us. But I won’t abandon what I brought with me.”
“I don’t care about the risk for me. I’ve done so many things the Germans could shoot me for that one more thing doesn’t matter. It’s you. Maybe the Germans wouldn’t shoot you—being just a girl—but who knows?”
“I’m not—” . . . just a girl. But she didn’t bother with the words. She doubted they’d convince him.
She looked away, embarrassed. All she could think of when she agreed to smuggle the letters was how desperately she had wanted news of him and how other families cut off from their loved ones must be desperate too. She couldn’t have refused to take a chance with the letters and lived with herself. “I agreed to take the risk for the same reasons you’ve taken so many. Your mother and father didn’t teach values only to you and Jonah, you know.”
He emitted something between a moan and a laugh, then took her arm. “We’re going somewhere for you to take out the letters. And the newspaper clips.”
“But, Edward—”
He looked at her then, and she could see he was not to be argued with. “I’ll carry them in my cloak. It won’t be the first time.”
2
Monster Armored Cars Used by British in Charge on the Somme
Called “tanks” by those who’ve seen them, Allied soldiers themselves refer to these huge traveling fort machines as “Willies.” Driven like motorcars but able to scale barbed wire, leap trenches, knock down houses, and snap off tree limbs, they are a formidable weapon indeed and will no doubt play an important role in the defeat of the Germans.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
They walked the rest of the afternoon, which to Isa was far preferable to sitting within searching distance of any German soldier. Until they came to a checkpoint they could not skirt.
“Put it together,” the soldier said. “Play.”
Sweat moistened Isa’s palms as she looked at the pieces of her flute. Should she run? Not without the flute. And from a soldier with a gun?
She looked from the disassembled instrument to the German, feigning ignorance of his language.
“You . . . you play?” His attempt at French was barely decipherable.
She shook her head even while he shoved the pieces at her as if to convince her with his insistence. This soldier was as stubborn as a caricature in the American newspapers she’d left so far behind.
“You play the music,” he demanded once more, in German again instead of his poor attempt at French.
She leaned away from him, taking a small step back, still shaking her head.
“Ach . . . Dummkopf . . .”
Better a free Dummkopf than an imprisoned flutist.
The soldier waved them away. Isa dared a peek at Edward, whose face was as emotionless as, she hoped, her own. If only he knew!
“This way,” Edward said quietly once they were beyond sight of the guard station. She followed him off the road again, back into the bramble that had once been cultivated land.
“Is Genny in Louvain?” She’d wanted to ask details all day, but Edward was in such a sour mood she hadn’t dared.
“We’ll stop in Louvain because of what we’re carrying, but my mother isn’t there anymore.”
“The Bardiou family is still in Louvain,” she said. “I’m sure they will—”
He stopped so suddenly she nearly bumped into him. “No one is left, Isa. No one you knew, at any rate. Stop talking.” Then he turned away from her, not even looking back to see if she could match his stride.
They walked at a steady pace, past farmhouses that looked empty, around motley crops. Mostly weeds grew in the fertile ground these days, with an occasional cluster of wheat, so different from what she remembered.
Isa had visited Louvain many times during the years she’d spent more time with Edward’s family than her own, living in one of the best rooms their exclusi
ve inn had to offer while Isa’s parents often traveled. But as they entered the outskirts, her heart went heavy. This was not the Louvain she knew. Where were the whitewashed brick homes and shops that had once lined the cobblestone street, the flowers that hung from each window, the gardens gracing every yard? Not a blade of color could be found, as if a massive paintbrush had drawn a swath of gray over the town. Entire blocks were burned to the ground; piles of brick and rubble stood crumbling where she’d once shopped and dined. She could tell by Edward’s face that he’d grown used to the devastation, so she hid her horror.
She knew the university was burned, where both her father and brother had attended—and Edward, too, at only sixteen. Perhaps it had been destroyed on the same day Edward’s hotel had burned, since it wasn’t far. American headlines told about the university and its beloved library burning, but Gourard had told her about the hotel.
And St. Peter’s, gone as well. How could they? But she knew that no matter how many of His churches the Germans burned to the ground, God wouldn’t abandon Belgium, not when she needed Him most. Edward must be made to see that . . . somehow.
A smaller chapel still stood, one she’d never visited before. Edward stared at it and she knew that was their destination. At the top of the wide cement steps, open doors beckoned.
Soldiers lingered on a nearby corner, smoking and laughing despite the dinner hour.
“We’ll round the block and come up behind the church.” Edward’s hand cupped her elbow so that even if she wanted to pause, she couldn’t.
They cut through the alley between two shops still intact but abandoned: one a grocer with a torn awning flapping on a breeze and the other with a printer’s logo in the window. Edward led the way to a back entrance of the modest, single-story chapel. Inside, colored light filtered through stained glass. A few people knelt in silent prayer at the altar, candles at each side lit as always in such chapels but perhaps more numerous than before the outbreak of war.
Isa had barely more than a glimpse of the altar as they passed through a hallway and down a narrow stairway leading to a tiled floor below. Downstairs they found several doors, all made of wood that, over the years, had absorbed the smell of incense. Edward went to one and tapped lightly.
