by Maureen Lang
There was the wide porch, beneath no less than seventeen arches in a row. Inside, paintings of grand municipal authority seemed prostituted by those occupying the halls now.
A sentry stood in her way toward the great staircase.
“I have a message for Herr Lutz.” She held out the note.
“And your name?”
“It is a message from Major von Bürkel. I am but the carrier.”
“And your name?” he repeated more firmly.
Isa swallowed, squelching her fear that he would demand to see her papers next. She told him, and he went to a podium where he wrote it down on a clipped stack, asking her the correct spelling of Isabelle.
“Does this message require you to wait for a response?” He appeared in no hurry for her to leave—or to deliver the note he now held.
“No. But it is urgent that he see the message immediately.”
“Very well.” He eyed her once more. “I will see that Herr Lutz receives what you’ve brought.” Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. “You may wait if you like. I have chocolate. I will share it with you.”
Isa took a step back, shaking her head. “No, I must go home.”
Then, without waiting for him to issue another word, she rushed to the exit.
She never looked back, although part of her was afraid he might come after her or send someone in chase. But when she was three blocks from the German headquarters where so many uniformed—and civilian—Germans lurked, she breathed a bit easier and picked up her pace. The legation was still several blocks away, back uphill from where she’d first come.
Isa tried the door but found it locked and rapped loudly. She had no idea what time it was, though she guessed it was only past six o’clock. She knocked again, this time louder, until her knuckles reddened and her heart thudded nearly as fast. At last she heard footsteps approach, and the door opened, but rather narrowly. Before her was a woman, tall of stature, with gray hair swept up into a bun at the nape of her neck, wearing a gown of dark brown. Though she looked regal, as if born to the legation and therefore an integral part of it, Isa had never set eyes on her before.
“My name is Isa Lassone and I must speak to Mr. Whitlock.” She took a step closer to the door but stopped when the other woman made no attempt to open it wider. “Could you tell him I’m here?”
“Mr. Whitlock is not inside.”
Isa glanced up at the flagpole rooted in the front yard, relieved to see the Stars and Stripes still flying. Other flags over other legations no longer flew—France, the United Kingdom, Australia. Only those who sided with Germany still flew their flags, and the few remaining neutrals like America.
“Where is he?”
“You’ve missed him only by minutes with another urgent matter. There’s no other kind these days! The Germans are seizing young men again, and Mr. Whitlock is doing all he can against it.”
“What! Taking them—where? To St. Gilles?”
“No, no—worse! Deporting them to Germany for work.”
Isa fell back as if the words were an assault. “But not children! Surely not—”
“I’ll tell Mr. Whitlock you were here, when he returns. Though I fear he won’t be able to contact you until morning at the earliest. I’m sorry, miss, but there are a great many others suffering, too, and Mr. Whitlock is only one man. He cannot hear every case, no matter how urgent. Good night.”
Then she pushed the door closed, effectively shutting Isa out. She heard the sickening click as the door found its home, followed by the tumble of a lock into place.
Only acting would stop her trembling; only action would stall her tears. She must . . . what?
There was only one thing left to do. Find Edward. He might know someone who could help. At the very least he needed to know what had become of his little brother—particularly if the Germans were sending Jonah to a work camp the likes of which Edward had already known.
Rosalie. The name came immediately to mind. Isa could not remember any house number, indeed she hadn’t seen one that night Edward had taken her there. But she remembered the neighborhood and would find this woman herself. Surely Rosalie would know how to find Edward.
The nearer Isa came to the far end of Lower Town, the greater her doubt grew. She might consider herself Belgian, but she was a stranger to this part of Brussels. The way she was dressed, in her mother’s forest green day gown, hardly lent much help—and yet, if anyone suspected her of being a German spy, wouldn’t they think she would have taken more time to look like one of them, to fit in?
She didn’t have time to worry about such things. She wished she’d brought her papers, but going back for them would have wasted too much time. She must find Rosalie, and then Edward, and get back home to Genny. Genny! Surely she was more frantic than ever.
She’d forgotten how each narrow, cobbled street looked so similar. How one began only to end unexpectedly. She was sure she’d reached the right street until seeing the next, then equally sure that was the one.
Tell me what to do, Lord! I don’t know what to do.
She paced the blocks, trying to retrace her steps from so long ago. She eliminated several streets as being too far from the edge and a couple by virtue of oddities she was sure she would have noticed that night: a little statue of St. Martin, a porch so long it traversed the length of three town houses. Surely she would have noticed the smells of the stables at the end of one street.
As usual, there were few people out, but two people she asked did nothing more than give her their backs. She walked the two arteries she’d narrowed as her choices. Both had homes in the center of the block with a tiny, square window that looked so familiar. As she neared despair of ever finding help, someone emerged from one of the buildings she watched.
“Pardon.” She approached the blond young man on the steps. He turned to her abruptly with a look uncannily passive from one stranger to another. She continued in French, “I—I’m trying to find someone and I wonder if you might help?”
He eyed her. “Who are you?”
“Isa Lassone.”
“It’s clear you’re not from around here. Who are you looking for?”
“A young woman, dark hair, petite. Her name is Rosalie.”
If the name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. “What do you want with this person?”
“I need to speak with her. We have a mutual friend.”
“And who is that?”
Isa folded her arms against his close scrutiny. “I’d rather not say.”
“And maybe I would rather not say if I know this Rosalie.”
“Oh, but you must help,” Isa pleaded. “I need help for a child!”
He appeared unmoved. This dreadful war! It made everyone suspicious. Were children its latest victims? Her gaze left his face and went to the door of the home he’d just exited. What had she to lose by going to every door and asking for Rosalie?
She took a step forward, intent upon going around the tall man, when it suddenly occurred to her that he might be younger than he initially appeared. Though the skin around his eyes and ears was wrinkled, there was something familiar in the aging pattern. In fact, recalling Edward’s disguise, she knew at that moment that he and Edward had at least one thing in common: their makeup artist.
The man stepped in her path in one quick, agile movement. One quick, agile, and young movement. “I think perhaps you should return to your home, mademoiselle.”
At two steps closer she was certain. With one glance around to see that no one was nearby, she whispered, “You know this woman, don’t you? I tell you, I mean her no harm. I must talk to her.”
“Talking to people these days is dangerous. Even pretty young women. Perhaps especially so.”
“But I need help. A boy has been seized by the Germans and Rosalie will want to know.”
At least he looked curious. “Why should she want to know?”
“Because of our mutual friend. He has a brother named Jonah.”
&nb
sp; He didn’t easily dismiss the name or her, that much was clear. He studied her a moment longer. “Come with me.”
Isa was at his heels before he finished his last word.
She recognized the small, barren entranceway. The man entered the inner door without even a knock and Isa followed. Moments later a woman appeared under an archway across the comfortable room. Isa pushed the thoughts from her mind but they came nonetheless: this was Rosalie. The woman Edward depended on at least for his identity. Someone he trusted.
Isa stepped forward, but even as her lips opened, words faded. Edward entered the room behind Rosalie: the Edward she knew, without a trace of the makeup marring his skin.
“Isa! How did you get here? What are you doing here?”
She wanted to fly to his arms, but her feet were firmly rooted in the spot near the door. She was the outsider in this cozily relaxing home where he was so at ease with two people who were strangers to her. Even as he stepped fully into the room, she saw that he had a cup of something in his hand, which he set aside on the nearby table as he approached.
“What is it?” He was near her now and placed his hands on her arms.
His voice shook away her selfish thoughts. “Oh, Edward, you must come with me. It’s Jonah. The Germans have taken him!”
“What? But why?”
“He was taken from school, they said to St. Gilles, but I’ve just come from Mr. Whitlock’s, and I was told Germany is seizing young men to be deported to Germany for work.”
He looked behind him at the man and Rosalie, then back at Isa. “We’ve heard they were taking men from the provinces and expected it here, too. But Jonah . . . it hardly makes sense. He’s just a boy.” He turned from Isa. “I must go.”
Isa stepped closer to his back. “Yes! Your mother is trying to track him down. But, Edward, the Major . . . he mustn’t see you as you are. He doesn’t stay in his room anymore. When I left, he was with your mother.”
“With her? What do you mean?”
“I believe he was trying to help. He sent me to the Kommandantur with a note.”
Edward’s face reflected Isa’s skepticism. But they both knew the obvious: Edward couldn’t go to his mother with a German Major lurking in the same room.
He looked at the other man as if seeing how inadequate were their disguises, even in the dim light of a home illumined only by candle. Suddenly he faced Isa again. “I need you to do something for me.”
She nodded.
“I’ll need money. What do you have other than the jewels? And do you still have immediate access to wherever you’ve hidden it?”
“I have five thousand Marks, and some Belgian francs, too—a thousand in smaller notes. And a one-thousand-franc note. It’s safe in the room I told you about. No one could possibly find it there, I promise you that.”
No time to see if any one of them found the amounts impressive—Edward was already leading her to the door. “Go back; retrieve a thousand in German notes, five hundred in Belgian francs. You must bring it here and return home before curfew. Will you do it?”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to the church,” Edward said. “Go now, Isa. And hurry.”
She turned away and would have dashed, but Edward held her back. For a moment he simply looked at her. “Be careful.”
She smiled and nodded. Then flew from the room.
She ran nearly all the way, slowing only when footsteps neared, fearing to be stopped with a demand to check papers. But God had sent her peace; He would do something to save Jonah, and He would do it through Edward.
15
Let us present a strong, united, yet peaceful resistance as we await the day of our deliverance. In this way we prove the vast inferiority of what they call German Kultur.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
Genny sat beside Major von Bürkel in the backseat of the black motorcar driven by a young German soldier. The Major, beside her, had the grace not to look her way, for which she was thankful. Ahead, she saw only the black, white, and red colors flying on the little flags affixed to the hood of the motor. Colors of the Second Reich. Her head ached; her heart pounded; her soul prayed words her mind couldn’t form.
Jonah was a spirited child, and she was fully prepared to believe he’d done something rash, even reckless. Yet whatever he’d done could not possibly deserve the punishment of imprisonment. He was a child!
She shrank to the farthest corner of the auto, feeling the very thing she told others not to feel. Don’t hate them, Jonah, because God loves even them. Don’t hate them, Isa, because your hatred will only hurt your own soul. Don’t hate them, Edward, in spite of all they did to you. Forgive them, as we’ve been forgiven. . . .
She stifled a cry, imagining Jonah suffering some sort of German injustice even now.
What a liar she was, a fraud. She hated them, all of them, even this man beside her, for taking her husband, for burning her home and destroying her livelihood, for making Edward suffer as he had. And now for this.
God forgive her, she hated them.
And yet this was a man beside her, not an army. A man who seemed sincere in his efforts to help.
He’d said little since Isa had left with his note. When four other officers came to their door, Genny had nearly fainted of fear, certain they’d come to tell her Jonah’s fate. Yet the Major had bid the men to enter. They had all seemed happy to see him, calling him Max, thudding his shoulder or back. He’d introduced her shortly after that, and everyone had been polite, offering formal bows, and one even kissed her hand as if they were at a soiree.
She’d wished them all away then, silently but fiercely, until one of them said “old Lutz” had sent them with a motorcar for the Major’s use and to let him know he would check into the matter of Max’s note.
Upon hearing of the car, the Major had glanced Genny’s way, and as if they were suddenly the kind of old friends who could read each other’s mind, he handed her the shawl she’d only just discarded and they went on their way. That seemed an eternity ago, but it must have been only minutes, for they hadn’t been on the road long.
“Frau Kirkland,” the Major said quietly, “I can ensure that you see your son, and I can have my friend Herr Lutz look into the matter, but neither I nor Herr Lutz can free him immediately. You do know that? That he’s been taken here, of all places, suggests he’s done something wrong. Something illegal.”
She nodded, tearing her eyes from the flags on the hood to glance at him, then out the side window. Illegal according to German law, perhaps . . .
“It’s a rather fragile web we’ve woven,” he said softly, almost as if he spoke to himself. “We all do our jobs because we want to see our country victorious. We long for Germany to take its place among the great powers. Is that wrong?”
She peeked his way but he wasn’t looking at her, either.
“We have jobs that seem quite separate, alien even, to other compatriots who serve our country.” Then he cleared his throat and peripherally she saw him look her way. “That is why I’m unable to assure his freedom. Depending on the details, and upon the insistence and importance of his accuser, as well as upon the judge-advocate who hears his case, if one is to be heard, there may be nothing at all that I can do. In fact, were I von Bissing himself, I could do nothing unless those who are involved with the case allow it. It is all part of this web, do you see?”
She nodded again, although she didn’t “see” at all. Justice was justice; why must it be so difficult to apply universally, rather than allow only a select few to decide? Was true justice to be found in any court in Belgium while Germans were here?
She kept silent, afraid she might say something to cause him to withdraw his offer of help. He had no real reason to offer such aid, she knew that. And she wasn’t about to shun the precarious hand he extended her way.
At last they pulled up before St. Gilles. She’d seen it before, in passing. The turrets, the battlements, the arrow loops
and perpetually guarded center gate. Only now those sentries were German. They spoke briefly to the driver. One flashed a light on Genny and the Major in the backseat while another examined their papers. Then they were waved through to an inner courtyard, and Genny heard the tires rolling over rough gravel before the vehicle halted. Here the driver exchanged a few words with another guard, who opened the door at Genny’s elbow.
She found herself surrounded by the medieval battlements of the prison. With little more than moonlight to illumine the structure, it was as intimidating as any prison should be, especially one with so many years of service. Genny hoped it hadn’t appeared so menacing by day, when the boys had arrived.
She exited the motorcar and waited for the Major. A soldier met them on the steps of an inner citadel. She watched Major von Bürkel move slowly, depending on a cane now rather than crutches. And it was then she noticed a difference: not one shoe but two, perfectly balanced, one at the end of each pant leg. How had she not noticed? When had this change occurred? In the dim light the only hint of his disability was in the careful steps he took. Genny paced herself to his gait.
Their footsteps echoed off empty halls. Soon she heard the noise of children talking—the first sound all evening that brought joyful tears to her eyes.
The room was large and dark, lit only by oil lamps set too high to reach without a wand, starkly devoid of furniture. In the center of a roughly tiled floor sat a circle of a dozen boys, all of similar size.
