by Maureen Lang
“Mother!”
Genny nearly tripped over the narrow hem of her gown to reach Jonah. For once he didn’t pull away from such a public embrace.
“You’re here!” he said into her ear. “Can I go home now? and my friends?”
Achieving a bit of calm for his sake, she shook her head. “Not yet, but soon. Very soon.”
“What’s all this about, Jonah?” the Major asked. “Why were you brought here?”
Jonah seemed to notice him for the first time. “Did you bring my mother here? Is that why she was allowed to see me?”
The Major said nothing, neither admitting nor denying the presumption. Instead, he said, “Answer the question now, Jonah. What’s all this about?”
Jonah stepped away, folded his hands behind his back, and before Genny’s eyes her son seemed to age a decade. He looked very much like Edward just now, taller and more mature, as if ready to accept whatever punishment was meted out.
“It was my idea,” he said, chin held high, gaze straight ahead rather than at his mother or the Major. “I incited a mutiny against Herr Oberland, the music teacher.”
Boys approached en masse, having stood the moment Jonah had but holding back until he’d spoken.
“No! It was my idea!”
“No! Mine!”
“It was a unanimous decision,” Jonah said over the rest, “but if there is to be special blame for the instigator, I’m ready to accept it.”
“Just what sort of mutiny did you incite, Jonah?” Major von Bürkel asked. “Was Herr Oberland harmed in some way?”
“No. We simply refused to enter his classroom.”
“And why is that?”
Jonah stiffened, still staring straight ahead as if he were already a soldier. “Because he taught us nothing but German songs. We believe the rest of the world has music to offer as well. Some even better than Germany’s.”
Genny nearly cried out to cover the words before the Major could take offense.
But then she heard laughter, deep and pure and so unexpected she could scarcely believe it came from the man beside her. Yet it was the Major himself, so clearly amused she felt her knees go weak with relief.
“Yes, Jonah, you have a point.” Then he became somber as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But you must do one thing, and that is to promise your mother you will not speak if officers question you as a group. Do you understand what I’m saying? For your mother’s sake if not your own, you’ll not say a word.”
“But I—I’ve been elected spokesman.”
The Major shook his head. “Resign the post, boy, as it’s obvious everyone was in on the decision. Speak to a German officer only if questioned. Each of you. Do you understand?” He looked at the other boys, who still stood behind Jonah. “And for your own good, whoever answers will say the prank was aimed at this teacher because you don’t like the way he combs his hair or because he has foul breath. Keep it to that and you’ll be home by supper tomorrow. Do you understand? This is no time to make martyrs of yourselves, and that’s what they’ll do if you give them reason enough.”
A few of the boys nodded. Jonah said nothing.
Genny put a hand under his chin, beckoning him to look at her. “This is no time to try conquering the army. Let the soldiers take care of that.”
Still, he said nothing. She increased the pressure on his chin. “Jonah.”
At last his gaze faltered and he looked down, nodding as he did so. “I was scared half to death I’d be shot.”
With a low sigh Genny drew him back into her arms. “Well, now all you have to do is be silent unless asked directly to speak. And you’ll be home in no time.”
Genny looked around the room. It was chilly but not damp, and though it offered little by way of comfort, it was not unbearable. “I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay, Jonah. You’ll remember you’re never really alone, won’t you? God Himself is right by your side. Always.”
He nodded, his gaze meeting hers.
“All right then,” the Major said. “Your mother cannot stay longer. We’ll get word to the other parents that all of you are together and doing well, and that you’ll be home in no time at all. So go back to your circle, and if you do sing, it’ll have to be a song the teacher taught you. A German song. That’ll go well with the guards, and the tale of it will reach the dreaded teacher in no time and soften him up. You’ll see.”
Genny braced herself for a moan of protest, at least from her son, but even he showed wisdom and restraint, returning in silence to the circle. She didn’t want to leave, but when the Major put a hand beneath her elbow, she knew she must.
She took a last look at Jonah as the door closed between them, and for the first time since the crisis began, she took a breath without trembling.
“Must they stay the night?” she whispered as they followed their escort back to the main entrance. “You heard it’s nothing more than a trivial matter. Why must they spend any time here at all?”
“Evidently this Herr Oberland is a sensitive type. If he was offended, he’ll have to feel the crime was punished.”
“Surely that’s already been achieved.”
The Major lifted his shoulders. “The boys are fine, as you saw. No harm will come to them.”
Genny knew she couldn’t press the issue. “We must tell the other parents their boys are all right.”
The Major nodded. “We’ll go to the school. I’m sure we’ll find someone there waiting to pass the word along.”
* * *
By the time Isa let herself quietly into the back of her house, her lungs stung and her side felt as if a knife were embedded within. She hastened into the kitchen and found Henri at the door leading to the rest of the house.
“Oh, Henri, I need your help—”
He raised a finger to his lips, pointing to the door. She quieted, leaning her ear to the wood panel much as Henri had been doing a moment ago. Through the butler’s hall came the definite sound of voices. Men. German.
And she needed her papers—from upstairs!
“Where is Clara?”
Henri motioned something she could barely decipher, even accustomed as she was to his way of communicating. A coat. She must have gone out. A prayer. Perhaps praying for help—or looking for someone to help.
It was no use. She couldn’t send Henri upstairs; such an idea was too outrageous not to be noticed by the Germans. She must retrieve her Passierschein herself or risk another flight without them. But at least Henri could help with the other matter.
“I’ve hidden something in the cellar—in the special room. Will you go downstairs and bring me some of the money I’ve left on the table? A thousand marks, five hundred francs. And hurry!”
He nodded, then turned to the pantry door, the only access to the cellar.
Isa sucked in a deep, steadying breath. The sound of laughter pierced her. How could they laugh when men—and perhaps even boys—were being rounded up this very moment?
“Yes,” she heard one man say, “and like Lutz, you would have me believing he’s farther up the evolutionary scale than I.”
Whatever that meant, the room erupted into more male laughter—a sound Isa hadn’t heard in too many months to recall. She scanned the area for Genny but saw only uniformed men, each of them either smoking or drinking. What they drank, she had no idea. Nor was the Major present.
One of the men saw her and stepped forward, a Hauptmann by his insignia, and a well-decorated one at that. He clicked his heels and bowed formally before her, a young, clean-shaven man with well-oiled dark hair. His nose was not large yet it had a somewhat-pointed look to it. His chin, while not the jutting sort, had a precise cut. His cheekbones were well-defined, brows like two arrows emerging from the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark like his hair—the searching kind, as if he saw more than most others. He looked at her now as if he knew her, and yet she’d never seen him before. She would remember if she had.
“You must be Isabel
le Lassone, the American heiress who owns this home.” He spoke French as naturally as he spoke German. “It is a pleasure to meet you, after having once lived under your hospitable roof.”
Uninvited and unwelcome. She longed to refuse his hand but knew she could not. He let his lips linger on the top of her hand, and when he let go, she knew another battle against the desire to wipe clean the feel of his mouth on her skin.
The others introduced themselves, another Hauptmann, a Major, and the last a Rittmeister, all fit and strong. Only this new Major showed any sign that he’d been at the front, with a bandage on the side of his face and the scar of a laceration on the other cheek.
“Where is Major von Bürkel?” she asked.
“On a mission,” said the first man, who’d introduced himself as a Hauptmann Rudiger von-something-or-other. “With another woman who lives here. Frau Kirkland?”
Isa nodded.
“They went to see about her son.”
“To bring him home?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t know. “That, of course, depends on his offense and the person bringing the charges.”
Charges . . . “So this has nothing to do with what is happening in the provinces?”
The Hauptmann lifted one of those razorlike brows. “And what is happening in the provinces?”
“I’ve come from the American Legation, where they told me men were being rounded up and sent to Germany. I thought—”
The Hauptmann laughed. “You needn’t worry, Fräulein; all we are doing is providing work for men who are otherwise unemployed. With generous wages! There should be no complaints.”
She believed not a word, but it wasn’t something she could argue. “Then Frau Kirkland’s son isn’t among those being deported?”
“How old is her son?” another soldier asked.
“Merely eleven. A boy!”
They laughed again. “Ach, he will be ready in a few years, but not yet. By the time he is ready to work, he’ll know better what’s expected of him.”
“But if he isn’t being rounded up with the men, why would he have been taken from his school today? They said several boys were taken to St. Gilles—to the prison there.”
“None of us know,” the Hauptmann said. “But Max will find out and set any wrong aright.”
She wanted to demand what offense could be so great that an eleven-year-old child must be incarcerated in such a place but held her tongue. She only wanted one thing now, to retrieve what she needed and go back to Edward, to warn him about their house full of “guests.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she backed away.
“But you’ll want to wait for Frau Kirkland, won’t you?” the same Hauptmann asked. “To see if she returns with her son?”
“Do you think there is a likelihood of that? that she’ll be allowed to bring him home?”
“Once again, I cannot say. I wish that I could, for your sake.”
“I am going to a family friend, one who will want to be here when she comes back—especially if she comes alone.”
“Very well.” He detained her a moment longer with a smile she was sure he meant to be charming. “But might I say, mademoiselle, that if you’d been in residence when I first came to stay, it would have taken the entire German army to have me leave?”
Isa turned away at the first polite moment.
She went up the carpeted stairs, to her room, and back down without stopping, carrying her Passierschein. She would have slipped into the kitchen without a word, but the Hauptmann caught up with her just as she entered the butler’s hall separating dining room from kitchen.
“I would be happy to accompany you,” he said. “It’s getting late, and although I cannot offer my car—Max has that—my company will ensure your walk will go unstopped.”
As tempting as a guaranteed unhindered journey sounded, to accept his offer was ludicrous. “No thank you,” she said. “It’s not far, and I’ll be back shortly.”
He opened the kitchen door for her, holding it wide until she passed. She didn’t look at him, just entered the kitchen and never turned back, waiting until she heard the door close behind her. She went to the pantry.
Henri was just behind the door. He looked at her closely as he handed her the money. Then he pointed to himself and to her, but she shook her head. “No, Henri.” She tucked the precious cargo away. “I’ll be all right if I go alone. That is, if I go quickly!”
Once again she ran most of the way, slowing only when she heard voices or footsteps ahead or behind. This time she didn’t have to search for the right townhome. Edward’s friend approached her at the end of the street.
“Edward isn’t back,” he said, leading her to the right home. Rosalie was nowhere to be seen.
Inside, he offered her one of the chairs. “I would get you something to eat, only it’s Rosalie’s house and she doesn’t have much in the kitchen these days.”
“No one does.” Isa looked around. “Is Rosalie here?”
“She is with Edward. My name is Jan, by the way.”
He still watched her, and Isa wished she were bold enough to stare back. He was nearly as tall as Edward but somehow slighter, less handsome. Yet he was attractive with a somewhat-triangular face, the wide end at his broad forehead, his jaw tipping the other end.
“You are the one Edward’s mother used to take care of, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Did you know Edward before the Germans came?”
“Yes. We were at the university together. We started together, though I was eighteen and he just sixteen. But then you would know that he started young, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I know his parents are—were—very proud of him.”
There was a long silence after that, and Isa could think of nothing to say that wasn’t a question about Edward and Rosalie, where they’d gone, about the work they did that this man so obviously shared. About how closely Edward worked with Rosalie and if . . .
“It’s generous of you to use your money to help Jonah.”
And yet his tone hadn’t sounded grateful at all; rather, he’d sounded curious.
“I would do anything for Edward and his family.”
“You mentioned something interesting earlier,” Jan said. “That you’d hidden your money in a room. What was all that about?”
“I brought with me what I could, in the hope of getting Edward and his family out of Belgium. But Edward won’t go.”
“Yes, I’m not surprised. Do not give up on him, though. There may come a time when he must leave at a moment’s notice. And the room?”
“It’s a room in my house where I’ve kept money and jewelry safe.”
“How can any room be safe in your house with a German officer living there?”
“It’s safe. It’s very safe.” If she wasn’t so filled with worry over Jonah, she might have realized this opportunity sooner. “And it’s available for use . . . should such a secret place be needed.”
Just then they heard the door open and Rosalie came in. She took a packet from under her cloak, the size of a large textbook but soft, as if it were cloth wrapped in paper.
“Is Edward with you?” Jan asked.
“No. I’m to take the money and meet him.” She turned her dark eyes on Isa. “Do you have it?”
She handed the notes to Rosalie without hesitation.
“You should go home now, Isabelle Lassone.” Rosalie said the name as if it were a title. “Let Jan take you.”
“Where is Edward?” Isa asked.
“He is arranging for a new Passierschein. I’m to bring him this.” She held up the packet and the money. “He will come to your house as soon as he can. Expect Father Antoine tonight.”
“Father Antoine?”
“He will say he is the nephew of Genevieve Kirkland, in case anyone sees the resemblance. False papers for a priest are expensive because their passes allow them outside after curfew, like doctors and Germans. Go now. His mother will want to know h
e’s on his way. And I must go too.”
She turned away but Isa caught her hand in a gentle touch. “Thank you,” she whispered. For keeping him safe, for helping him. I would trade places with you . . .
Isa moved to the door and Jan followed, but she stopped him. “I can make it alone.” She looked back at Rosalie. “Warn Edward there are German soldiers at the house. Four, without the Major who lives there now.”
Then Isa hurried from the room.
16
Is there any way but war in this mad world of ours? A world where ill-advised, shortsighted, yes, downright maniacal generals are blindly worshiped? What other defense is there against such folly, except to fight?
La Libre Belgique
* * *
Edward walked up the half-dozen cement steps leading to the elaborate door of the Lassone home. Carved wood edged two intricately cut, frosted-glass panes that afforded the occupants privacy at night but sunlight during the day. It was an impressive door to an impressive house.
He twisted the bell next to the door and the chime sounded as bold as Edward himself needed to be if he was to succeed with this disguise.
A tall shadow appeared through the glass and the door swung open. Before him stood an officer roughly the same size as Edward, with slicked hair and an assessing gaze, even directed as it was to Edward in the one outfit that normally guaranteed respect. But too many priests had been arrested to let Edward believe the Germans held the cloth in any esteem.
“I am here to see Genevieve Kirkland.”
“And you are?”
“Father Antoine, from the parish of St. Eugenio.”
The German looked him over once again, finally stepping aside to let Edward enter. He, too, spoke in French. “I suppose you have identity papers?”
Edward nodded, patting the pocket of the black cassock he wore before he stepped past the soldier and went into the parlor.
The soldier came up behind him. “Then you don’t mind if I look at them?”
“Oh!” Edward said, as if the question came as a surprise. “No, not at all.” He fished for the papers, adding as he handed them over, “And may I say your French is excellent, Hauptmann.”
