Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  “Then you may tell him, Herr Lutz,” Edward said, “he would do best in that regard by stopping the deportations of men from the provinces.”

  Isa’s prayer that no offense be taken was as quick as her glance between the two men proving offense had already been exchanged.

  Herr Lutz twirled his wineglass between taut fingers, his gaze anything but amused. “There are a great number of unemployed men in Belgium, Father Antoine. Surely since you are exempt from either idleness caused by England’s blockade or deportation itself, you can at least appreciate what the General hopes to accomplish? To spare Belgium more mouths to feed, to improve the economy by putting men to work? To make sure the habit of work is not lost? Idle hands are the devil’s tools, as your brethren remind us.”

  Edward’s fork lingered over the steamed potatoes. “As to mouths to be fed, English and American generosity has addressed that. Though for how much longer, who can say, if they determine Germany must take on the burden as punishment for deporting men. And as to improving the economy and addressing idleness, once the men may work for Belgium rather than Germany, you will find them eager to expend the last ounce of their energy.”

  “I understand your reluctance toward change. It will take longer than just a few short years for General von Bissing to be appreciated for the leader he is, at least by Belgians. Perhaps not until well after the war.”

  “I’m sure we all long for the end of the war,” Isa said.

  “Perhaps we should generalize our topic so as not to offend our hostesses.” The Hauptmann glanced Isa’s way first, then settled his gaze on Edward. “Tell me, Father Antoine, what inspired you to take up the priesthood? I myself have always thought of God as nothing more than an illusion.”

  “An illusion suggests one has seen something, Hauptmann. And as I’ve never seen God, I’m afraid I devote my life to Him based upon something even less than that: pure faith.”

  “Life itself points to an evolutionary process,” Herr Lutz said, “one in which there is no need for faith, for man-made religions. Survival of the fittest is a cruel truth, as this war will prove.”

  “Do you mean to say war is some kind of biological experiment?” Edward asked.

  “It can be broken down to that, of course. For the sake of the species, the less advanced must step aside for the superior. For example, if an engineer develops a machine that is more productive than the one it replaces, he naturally stops using the less-effective machine. So it is with man. The best should be preserved and allowed to impose its orders and social organizations upon the less advanced—to replace or, if need be, destroy them.”

  He spoke so matter-of-factly he could have been discussing anything. Anything, that is, except the societies of man—of people, of families, of men and women and children.

  “Well,” Edward replied, “you’ve certainly fit man into a machine, haven’t you?”

  “What more is he than that?”

  “It’s a rather lonely viewpoint,” Isa said, “don’t you think, Herr Lutz? If man is nothing more than a machine, then what is it all for?”

  “For the propagation of the race, of course.”

  “With or without love,” Genny said. “With or without God.”

  “Let me understand correctly.” Edward leaned back in his chair. “Whichever army wins this war will prove that army is on the right evolutionary track? And the army that loses, being unfit, will be destroyed for the good of the rest of us?”

  “This is only natural, Father Antoine. Biological factors control our destinies, not some distant god who tampers now and then with the little toys he’s made. It is, of course, biologically certain that Germany will win.”

  “And if not? If the Allies win?”

  The Hauptmann lifted his wineglass. “Then I, for one, would rather die in the melee than live in a world so resistant to natural law.”

  “Your views leave little room for human virtue,” Genny said. “If it is only the fit who are destined to survive, then what good is virtue?” She looked at Herr Lutz. “Yet I know you are not without mercy. You were quick to see the injustice regarding my son.”

  “Freeing your son was a military decision. I believe the way to win this war is on the battlefield alone. Imprisoning children, deporting women to work camps, sinking ships with civilians aboard—these are not sound military decisions. We might as well do the recruiting for the Allies ourselves with such deeds.”

  “And deporting men, tearing them from their families?” Edward asked. “Using them in the war effort against their own countrymen?”

  “As I explained already, inviting men to work is a sound economic decision. Men are needed for a variety of work in Germany. We Germans are not the first, nor I’m sure the last, to employ such methods.”

  “Have you heard of the painter Paul Gauguin, Herr Lutz?” Edward asked.

  Herr Lutz nodded.

  “This house once boasted a painting by him.” Edward looked at the blank wall at the end of the room even as Isa glanced his way. All these years he’d been more observant of her home than she’d thought. “It used to hang there, but it’s gone now.”

  “Are you suggesting someone stole it?”

  “I mention him because I have read a little of his life. He left his family to search for what was called the ‘noble savage.’ The natural man, like the one to whom you refer with your biological laws. The one untouched by society’s restrictions, who would, Gauguin thought, display the natural goodness of man, an unspoiled example of individual freedom from laws, from responsibilities, even from God. But all he found were cruelty of a different kind and more death. To his last painting, he was always in search of answers—from where do we come, what are we, and to where do we go? I think we all must ask ourselves these questions and ask God to help us find the answers. Because, after all, God is searching for those who seek Him, whether we believe it or not.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Isa said.

  21

  Some things are best kept at a distance. A German, for example.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  “I will get your things,” Isa said as they emerged from the parlor a short while after dinner ended.

  The tension had gradually lifted, or perhaps she’d only gotten used to it by the time Clara had served coffee—real coffee—and custard pie sweetened with sugar. She rounded the far side of the staircase for the closet in which she’d earlier placed their paraphernalia.

  It was dark except for the moonlight shining through the window in the door behind her. Without lighting a lamp, she found the coats and the Hauptmann’s helmet and gloves along with Herr Lutz’s felt hat resting on the shelf.

  “I will help you with those.”

  Startled, Isa turned to see Hauptmann von Eckhart. Instead of reaching for the items in the tight quarters of an alcove meant for a single servant, he stepped close.

  “It’s no trouble.” She was determined to make the statement true. She held the heavy headpiece between them, only one thing on her mind now: returning to the parlor, which from here was both out of sight and sound.

  But the Hauptmann gently pushed aside the helmet so that they stood with nothing in between. So close his breath skimmed her neck.

  “I know how to obtain the painting taken from your dining room.”

  She gave a timid laugh, but it sounded strange, like someone else’s. “It really doesn’t matter, Hauptmann. I never cared for it.”

  His hand touched her shoulder, one finger slipping beyond the edge of her gown to graze the skin at the base of her neck. “It must be worth something, since the artist is dead and won’t be adding to anyone’s collection now.”

  She took a small step to the side, clinging to the cold metal helmet he’d refused to accept. “I do not care.”

  She took another step just as he grabbed her hand, and the helmet rolled from her arms, landing with a dull thunk on the hard wooden floor.

  “I don’t think you
understand,” he whispered, closing the gap between them again. “I could be of great help to you. See that you are always fed, always warm, always safe. I am offering you my protection.”

  “How very kind of you, but really, we’re fine under the protection of the Hague Convention. We may not often enjoy the kind of meal we had this evening, but we’re not starving. The CRB is seeing to that.”

  “Then, as a token of our friendship, I hope that I may call on you?”

  “Friendship, Hauptmann? Conversation at the dinner table proved how different we are. Friends usually have something in common.”

  “Perhaps you can convert me to your beliefs.” Now he had her by both arms, holding her in a grip from which she couldn’t pull away. Not without a fight.

  She glanced beyond his shoulder, wondering what would happen if she screamed. “I shall pray for that very thing. Unceasingly. Now if you’ll let go—”

  But he did not. Instead, he lowered his face, and as his mouth neared hers, his grip loosened while his lips came down on hers. Jerking away, she did what came naturally, without thought to consequence—she raised her hand to strike. The slap sounded sharp and definite just as shadows approached. From the corner of her eye, Isa saw the silhouettes of Edward in his priest’s garb and the Major behind him.

  The Hauptmann stepped back, his jaw hard, lips now taut. He bent to reach his fallen helmet and brushed past Edward, who barely had time to step aside, not acknowledging the Major, who looked on with concern.

  Edward stepped toward Isa, placing his hands gently on her arms where the Hauptmann had held her a moment ago. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes. He—he was rude, nothing more.”

  The Major stepped closer as well, his brows drawn. “He does not represent his regiment well. I’m sorry if he offended you.”

  The Hauptmann’s regiment was part of their army. She wished them all gone . . . from the Hauptmann to von Bissing. That included the Major. “I hope the Hauptmann will not be back in this house.”

  “No,” the Major said, frowning. “He will not be invited again.”

  Edward retrieved the hat, still on the floor along with the fallen gloves, then took Isa’s elbow with his free hand. Only Herr Lutz stood at the door with Genny nearby.

  Herr Lutz accepted his things. “Von Eckhart left in a hurry,” he said in German to the Major. “Did he misbehave once more?”

  The Major said nothing, but that seemed a satisfactory answer for the other man. Herr Lutz bowed stiffly Isa’s way, thanking her for the evening. Then he left.

  Finally the door closed and their “guests” were gone. Isa began a deep breath, but her gaze fell on the Major. Too soon for that breath of relief.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he moved toward the base of the stairs. But he turned to Genny before battling the sixteen steps ahead of him. “I wish to thank you—all of you—for an entertaining evening. I bid you good night, then.”

  No one spoke, and as he topped the stairs using the polished walnut railing, Genny turned away. She went toward the kitchen. “I’m going to help Clara,” she said over her shoulder, as if leaving it up to Isa and Edward whether they would join her or not.

  Isa followed, and so did Edward.

  “Since I’m here,” Edward whispered to Isa once they were well away from the Major, “I’ll work on refitting the press. Send Clara out of the kitchen so she won’t notice where I’m going.”

  That proved easy with so many abandoned dishes still left to retrieve from the dining room. Both Isa and Genny offered to help, and Edward was gone when they came back to the kitchen.

  It was quite late by the time the kitchen was neat again. Clara thanked them for their help before excusing herself for the night.

  Alone with Genny, Isa said, “I found it interesting that God chose Edward to defend Him tonight, didn’t you?”

  “He’s not letting go, is He?”

  Isa shook her head, looking toward the pantry door. “Will you wait up for him with me?”

  “No, I’m tired. Go downstairs; tell him he needs to leave before it gets too late.”

  Isa had hoped for an excuse to wait for Edward, but this was better. A reason to join him.

  So she went down the stairs, noiselessly letting herself into the secret room. Edward stood on an upturned crate above the main casting of what looked to be a bigger press than she’d expected.

  “Have you ever noticed this little opening up here next to the light? What room is above here?” No greeting, just the question.

  “The dining room. Or the butler’s hall. I can’t be sure.”

  “And above that?”

  “That would most likely be the music room.”

  “I’d like to take a look there.”

  “What will you be searching for? I might be of some help.”

  “I have a feeling that opening might have served as some kind of warning system for those who used this room before us.”

  “Henri can show us if he knows.”

  Edward returned his attention to the pieces in front of him, having placed them in some sort of order. “We’ll have to test for noise once we have it running, perhaps use mattresses to absorb the sound if necessary. Have you any extra that won’t be missed?”

  “I’d offer the Major’s, but . . .”

  Edward didn’t laugh. He kept himself bent over the parts.

  “There may be something in the attic. But, Edward . . . I wanted to tell you I admired what you said tonight. About God.”

  He didn’t respond; she couldn’t see his face at all.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” she said quietly, “that God is pursuing you, and that’s why He gave you the opportunity to defend Him tonight?”

  Edward stood to his full height, only an arm’s length away and nearly as high as the ceiling while standing on the crate. He looked down at Isa with an expression she’d seen before, one that said she was pestering him. “Isa, whatever I said tonight wasn’t because of faith. It was out of hatred. For them. I knew if I was on God’s side, I wouldn’t be on their side. I doubt God used me as a mouthpiece with that in my heart.”

  She lifted a brow. “I believe somewhere in the New Testament, St. Paul says he doesn’t care why the gospel is being preached, only that it’s being preached.”

  Edward ignored her and returned to his task, hovering above the press where he could reach more of its surface.

  There was but one thing to do. Act the pest he believed her to be. “I don’t know why God spared you from that camp when He let the others die. Maybe we’ll never know. How can we know the mind of God? But I do know I’m grateful, and so is your mother. I don’t think we could have survived losing you with so many years of our own lives left ahead of us.”

  Edward stopped what he was doing. She saw his hands become still, but he kept his back to her. “You worry too much about me.”

  “It isn’t worry. It’s sadness. Because I know that nothing . . . neither height nor depth nor any other creature shall be able to separate you from the love of God. . . . And it must sadden Him that you don’t think Him worthy to be trusted anymore.”

  Nothing. No response, no interest in her words.

  “Have you no fear of God anymore?” She rounded the press so she could see his face but still he didn’t look at her. “Would you like to know what I’m beginning to think? That you’re prideful. You think you can do a better job running things than God can.”

  His gaze shot once to hers, but he said nothing, only picked up a tool.

  “You’ve backed yourself into a corner where your only company is pride. You haven’t stopped believing in God. Only you’re angry He didn’t answer your prayers to save those other men from the camps. You’re angry He took your father when your mother and Jonah—and you—need him more than you’ve ever needed him in your life.”

  Edward dropped whatever tool he’d held and it landed with a clank that made Isa jump. “You’ve spent some time guess
ing!” His eyes were black, brows trying to hide them in the fiercest frown. “It’s actually worse than that. I believed in God because that’s what my father taught me. He raised me on the pure milk of God’s Word. He believed every bit of it. But do you know what else he believed in? Pacifism! That mankind could solve differences through things like the Hague Convention, not with guns. Spend our national money on social reform; give it to the poor—do anything except spend it on an unnecessary army. We all know now what a fool he was to believe that. Maybe he was a fool to believe the rest, too.”

  Isa stared, eyes wide, but didn’t interrupt.

  “He was wrong, my father. All those years he lived with the honor and respect of everyone who knew him—and he died like a fool. Shot in the street. And for what? Because somebody thought he was going for a gun? Who knows?” He gave a deep sigh, and Isa saw his hand tremble as it rippled through his hair. “All the things he did, Isa, all the righteous things he did, I tried to emulate. I was the best student at school from the time I wore short pants to the day the Germans burned the university. I was the child who always tried the hardest, helped anyone who needed it, played games fairly. And do you know why?”

  “Because that’s what your father taught you?”

  “Yes, that’s what my father taught me. But he did it for God’s glory. I did it for my own.”

  He sank onto the crate now, so that Isa had to chase around the press again to look at him. Exhaustion wrinkled his eyelids. “You’re right, though. I’m full of pride. Why do you suppose God would want any part of me? Somebody who doesn’t even have enough faith to stand on it without my father right here beside me.”

  There was just enough room on the corner of that crate for Isa to sit beside him. “You said it yourself tonight at the dinner table. God pursues us. It’s all in the Bible you won’t read anymore.”

  Edward shook his head.

  “Oh, it’s okay for God to love the Germans but not to love you?”

  He stood, leaning against the wall that, with the press right behind them, wasn’t so far away. Suddenly he lost the frown and smiled. “How did things get so tangled, Isa? I’ve always been the one telling you what to think or do, not the other way around.”