Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  The German inclined his head ever so slightly as he looked over the Passierschein and then returned them. “This is Father Antoine,” he said to several other soldiers as he stepped around Edward and took up what had obviously been his wineglass. “And how do you know Frau Kirkland?”

  “She is my aunt. I was given a message earlier this evening that she might have need of my comfort. I came as soon as I could from the bedside of an ailing parishioner. Is my aunt here?”

  “No,” the Hauptmann said. “But we expect her soon. So the messenger did not wait for you?”

  Edward shook his head, watching as the Hauptmann looked toward the stairs and then toward the hall.

  Another of the officers approached, distracting Edward’s attention. He wore two pips of a Rittmeister. “Do you speak German?” he asked in his native language.

  Edward found himself nodding before considering consequences. How bold this disguise made him, to be so honest before the enemy.

  “You are young to be a priest,” the Rittmeister said, and at that pronouncement some of Edward’s boldness drained away as all four Germans eyed him now.

  “God revealed my vocation to me when I was a boy. I went to the monastery for secondary school at sixteen.” Which was partially true anyway. “I wasted no time to do the Lord God’s bidding.”

  “He told you? Just like that?” said the Rittmeister, who couldn’t have been much older than Edward himself.

  “Not audibly, if that is what you mean. His word came by way of desire, as it often does.”

  The Hauptmann was clearly distracted as he stood near the butler’s hall, but the discussion seemed to have caught his attention at least momentarily. “Desire?”

  Edward glanced at the Hauptmann. He had yet to meet a German soldier he could like, but this one was especially irritating. “Yes. Desire, when within God’s will, is a good thing. A motivating force.”

  “Please,” the younger man said, “I must ask you, since you are a man of God. Whose side is God on in this war?”

  The other three soldiers burst into laughter, and the Rittmeister beside Edward flushed a deep shade of red.

  “Everyone knows God is on our side, Rolf,” one of the others said. “Every soldier in the trench knows that. It’s inscribed on his belt buckle!”

  Nonetheless, the man at his side did not retract his question, and now all of them looked at Edward expectantly. He had his own ideas about this war, but common sense told him to keep those views to himself. Instead, he pulled his response from years of his father’s tutelage.

  “The Bible says God is the one who appoints the times to each nation and draws its boundaries.”

  “So whoever wins proves God is in their camp?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. Who can say what corrupt nation He may use to a greater end?”

  The young German’s brows drew together, as if he was confused and dissatisfied by the answer. Edward decided to take the tack his own father would have used. “God is interested in the state of every man’s soul. On the night before He was crucified, Christ prayed for His people to be united so the world would know God. He would rather we not fight to begin with.”

  Even as he spoke, Edward watched the Hauptmann. He was clearly obsessed with the kitchen.

  Just then the front door opened and his mother stepped inside, a German Major shuffling in behind her. Obviously he was the one who lived here, yet he wasn’t nearly as disabled as Edward expected. He had full use of a wooden appendage filling in for his missing foot.

  Edward hurried to his mother’s side and put his face close to hers as if to kiss her in greeting. But instead he whispered one word: “Antoine.”

  In that very moment she flung her arms around his neck and half laughed, half cried, “Antoine! How glad I am you’re here.”

  “Yes, Aunt Genny, I came as soon as I could. What news is there of my young cousin Jonah?”

  She looked at the Major beside her. “Major von Bürkel arranged for me to see him. Jonah is well, and we have reason to hope there will be no trial.”

  “Trial! What sort of crime did the boy commit?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” his mother said. As she removed her shawl, the Major took it from her.

  “Boys being boys,” the Major added.

  To Edward, his mother and the Major suddenly seemed of another world, one where it was hardly odd that an Englishwoman of Belgian residence should be so familiar with the German soldier beside her. He took his mother’s hand and led her from the Major’s side just as Isa burst from the butler’s hallway.

  “Genny! Where is Jonah? What’s happened to him?”

  His mother put an arm around Isa and smiled away the fear on Isa’s face. “I came from St. Gilles. There are a dozen boys there, and from what I saw, they are not being mistreated—except they must sit on a hard floor and spend the night.”

  “But what happened? Why was he taken there in the first place?”

  The Major spoke before Edward’s mother could answer, looking at his fellow officers. “Do any of you know a Herr Oberland? He was brought from the homeland to teach here.” He spoke in German, and Edward wondered if he knew they could all understand him—he, his mother, and Isa too. “He is the music teacher at Jonah’s school. Evidently he’s rather zealous in his appreciation of German music, and the boys wish to expand their musical education a bit beyond the German horizon.”

  All the Germans in the room laughed. Laughing was as easy as breathing to them. And why not?

  “I’ve assured Frau Kirkland that our friend Herr Lutz will settle the matter by tomorrow.” Then Major von Bürkel looked at the Hauptmann. “Perhaps you could see that he does.”

  The man drew his gaze from Isa’s profile. “Yes, of course. I shall not sleep until the matter is settled satisfactorily.”

  “Very well,” the Major said. “Then as I see it, the evening is at an end. You may take your leave, boys.”

  They seemed none too eager to do that, yet they set aside what little was left in the wineglasses and prepared to go, taking up their shiny helmets. As they bid Major von Bürkel farewell, they admonished him not to let too much time pass before they heard from him again. Then, at last, they were gone.

  The Major was not as tall as Edward, particularly leaning on his cane the way he did. Edward watched him as he struggled to a chair, where he closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze was directed at Edward.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said. “Pardon me if I do not rise.”

  “Of course,” Edward said. “My name is Father Antoine Marcellan, of St. Eugenio Parish here in Brussels. Madame Kirkland is my aunt.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s been quite some time since I’ve been outside my room, and as much as I might have wished to leave it earlier, I’m finding myself pining for it now. I’ll take a moment to rest before I conquer the stairs.”

  Edward took that moment to study his mother. She’d told him consistently not to let hate get the best of him, even though he believed to the core of his soul that she hated them too. And yet, just now, as she looked at this soldier, he didn’t see what he’d always seen before in her eyes. Something was different.

  Soon the Major began to struggle again with his cane and then made his way from the room. He paused as he passed Edward’s mother and briefly touched her forearm. “I know this has been difficult, Frau Kirkland, but I beg you to try sleeping tonight. You’ve seen that your boy has not been harmed. I promise you, he will be returned.”

  “Promise, Major?” She sounded as skeptical as Edward felt. “How can one part of the web you mentioned guarantee anything for another?”

  “Well said. I suppose I spoke out of compassion. Suffice it to say, then, I shall do everything in my power to see that your son is returned as quickly as possible. It’s already in the works, so to speak.”

  17

  The latest injustice committed by the German Imperial Army
is that of the seizure of our young men and the unmitigated gall of their leaders to expect us to provide them with lists of names of those whom they may seize! Stand firm, fellow Belgians, for truly the Germans are revealing to the rest of the world what a barbarous, unconscionable race they are.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  “Did you hear something?”

  Isa lifted her head from the cradle of her arms resting on the kitchen table, but all she’d heard was Genny’s voice. Her gaze fell on Edward, who was sleeping on the floor with his back against the wall.

  Then Isa heard it. “The door! Edward!” Her call or the act of scrambling to her feet awakened him and the three rushed from the kitchen. Isa could see through the glass that it was already morning, and the sun shone behind two silhouettes on the other side. One of those silhouettes was roughly the size of Jonah.

  “It’s him!” She fairly sang the two words.

  Genny pulled open the door and Jonah was in her arms.

  “I apologize for the early arrival,” came the familiar voice of the Hauptmann who had been there last night. “But I assumed you would want him back as soon as possible.”

  He was an intrusion upon the moment, and Isa refused to look him in the eye despite his gaze on her.

  “Thank you for bringing him to us,” Genny said, still holding Jonah.

  At last Jonah stepped back, no doubt seeing Edward in the vestments of a priest.

  Edward pulled him away from his mother and spoke before the boy could utter a word. “So, young cousin, how was your night in prison? You realize this will be quite a tale for all of your friends?”

  “Most of them were there, and now they’re angry with me because their parents are angry with them.”

  “Well, you can tell your own children about it, then, someday when you have them.”

  Edward led him away, no doubt to brief Jonah on his new identity.

  Isa slipped her arm through Genny’s. Then, remembering they weren’t alone, she glanced again toward the Hauptmann, who lingered in the doorway.

  “I was glad to be of assistance,” he said. “And if I may say, I continue to be at your service. If you need anything, simply ask for me at the Kommandantur.”

  “Thank you, Hauptmann . . . I’m sorry,” Genny said with a little laugh. “I’m afraid in all of the commotion last night, I don’t recall your name.”

  He clicked his heels in a formal salute. “Hauptmann Rudiger von Eckhart.” But during his introduction he looked from Genny to Isa, where his gaze remained.

  Isa looked away.

  “I must go,” he said, “but I hope I may call again—to check on the progress of our Major von Bürkel. Some of us feel his recuperation has gone on long enough, and we hope to persuade him to come to the Kommandantur a few hours a day.”

  Genny glanced up the stairway at her left. “I doubt he’s up and about this early, Hauptmann, but I will see that he’s told of your inquiries.”

  “Very well. Then I wish you good day.”

  He bowed again, once to Genny and then to Isa. “Good day to you, mademoiselle,” he said softly and then, at last, took his leave.

  Edward had rejoined them just as Isa closed the door. “I’m glad he’s gone,” she said.

  “Where is Jonah now?” Genny asked.

  “In the kitchen with Clara,” Edward told her, “who is no doubt feeding him more than whatever portion you’re each allowed.”

  “I’m going to see that he’s all right and then put him—and myself—to bed. I suggest the two of you get some sleep as well, after such a long night.”

  Isa nodded, but she no longer suffered the fatigue she’d felt a while ago, trying unsuccessfully to rest in a chair, still worrying over Jonah. And now here she was, alone with Edward. Adrenaline spread from somewhere in her middle, shooting out to her limbs, tingling her fingers and toes.

  “What we should do is properly thank God Jonah’s all right. When Mr. Whitlock’s clerk told me about the deportations . . .” She shivered, pretending leftover worries to be the cause of her jitters.

  He nodded.

  “Hmm . . . you didn’t deny God’s involvement in bringing Jonah to safety. Have you come back to acknowledging His existence, after all?”

  He grinned. “Must be the effect of the new disguise.”

  “One that will allow you to visit now, since even the Major knows you as part of the family.”

  “This doesn’t change anything, Isa.”

  “It could. I could show you the room right now.”

  He stepped closer. “You did the right thing in coming to me, and I’m grateful for the money. But I want nothing to do with that room. And furthermore, don’t use any more of your money; you’ll need it for when you leave.”

  “When we all leave, don’t you mean?”

  He didn’t answer but took his leave by way of the front door.

  * * *

  Edward went straight to Jan’s. Since the most recent arrests, Jan had taken a new address and with that yet another identity: he was now a baker for the CRB, a profession that made him practically exempt from German interest or attention.

  Edward made sure no one was around when he entered the seven-story apartment building. Some of his clothes were at Jan’s, and Edward needed to take at least one set of street clothes with him to the church, where he would spend much of his time from now on. But he couldn’t very well nap on a pew bench dressed as he was, so perhaps he’d snatch a few hours of rest at Jan’s before asking Father Clemenceau where he was to quarter himself in his new identity.

  Jan was just emerging from his bedroom, fully dressed as if ready to go out.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Jan straightened the collar on his shirt as he spoke. “I was about to look for you, actually. Is there news of Jonah?”

  Edward rubbed his eyes as he removed the three-edged black biretta from his head and loosened the cincture at his waist. Then he started on the buttons . . . all thirty-three of them. One for each year Christ was on earth—even Edward remembered the symbolism of that. But at the moment thirty-three buttons seemed too much trouble. All he wanted to do was change his clothes and get some sleep.

  “Jonah is home. I’m going to sleep a couple hours, if you don’t mind.”

  Jan didn’t reply, only stood in Edward’s way. Edward looked at him expectantly, too tired to be annoyed.

  “Last night Isabelle Lassone mentioned a room in her home where she’d hidden her money. When I asked about it, she said it was a safe room.”

  Fatigue no longer outweighed annoyance. His pulse picked up. “Nothing is safe with a German Major living there.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Jan said. “But when I asked her, she seemed certain—”

  “It’s out of the question.” Edward stepped around Jan to go to the empty bedroom.

  “Why? What kind of room is it? How big is it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “We can’t use it, Jan. So just leave it.”

  Jan looked at Edward with a snort. “I didn’t know you thought so little of the paper. A paper you said you’d give your life for, if it came to that.”

  “I said I would give my life, not anyone else’s. That’s where my mother lives, Jan. Do you think I’d put a press under her roof? Would you?”

  “I know what I’d do. I’d let them decide.”

  Edward shook his head, turning away and continuing with the buttons.

  Jan circled around. “Why not? Don’t they have a right to decide what they’ll risk and what they won’t? Isn’t Belgium theirs, too? Or do you make all the decisions for them, the way you’ve done for Rosalie and me?”

  “If ever I’ve made a decision, it’s because one needed to be made, and neither one of you seemed inclined to do it.”

  “Is that the way you see it? Fine. But you’re not even giving them a chance.”

  “The simple act of asking puts pr
essure on them to make what they think will be the right decision. It’s unfair to expect them to sleep above an illegal press or comp room.”

  “It’s no greater risk than you’ve taken.” Jan took a step closer so that his eyes were near level with Edward’s. “It’s their decision, Edward. Not yours.”

  Then Jan turned away, heading toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Rosalie’s.”

  Now it was Edward’s turn to head Jan off, though it took some doing to move quickly with unfamiliar priest’s garb hampering every step. “This matter is closed. No need to talk to Rosalie about it.”

  “Too late,” Jan said with a crooked smile. “I did that last night after you left. And I’m afraid you’ve been outnumbered. She agrees with me.”

  He opened the door and left.

  With a moan of purest frustration, Edward refastened the few buttons he’d loosed, retied the cincture around his waist, and placed the biretta back on his head. If they were going to confront Isa with a proposal about the room, he intended to be there. First.

  * * *

  “Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle.”

  Groggy, Isa opened her eyes to see Clara just inside her bedroom door.

  “Clara?”

  “I am so sorry to awaken you, but Monsieur Edward—that is, Father Antoine—he insisted.”

  Isa sat up, rubbing her eyes so they would open. “Edward? He’s back?”

  “He’s downstairs. I told him you were sleeping—”

  “That’s all right, Clara. I’ll see him at once.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.” She helped Isa to dress.

  Minutes later, Isa passed the Major’s room slowly as she moved toward the stairs. Satisfied that he must still be asleep, she made her way quietly to the first-floor parlor.

  “Edward?”

  He turned from the window and came to stand directly in front of her. “Jan and Rosalie are coming here to talk to you.”

  “Why? If they need anything for the paper, it’s certainly all right—”

  Edward shook his head, going back to the window and peering through a slat of the shutter as if looking for someone. “You talked to Jan about the room.”