Whisper on the Wind

by Maureen Lang

  “You will put this on.” The guard thrust familiar clothing at Isa through the bars. She heard shoes drop to the cement floor with a clunk and reached for them eagerly, scooping them against her chest.

  Isa turned to hastily change, removing her robe and for modesty’s sake pulling her dress over her nightgown. The guard, she noticed, made no effort to leave or turn away until she was finished.

  “So,” Pierrette said with a half smile, “either they have shown you a kindness or they take you to trial.”

  Isa caught the word. “Trial?”

  “Will they try you in your nightgown, for all to see how they arrested you? I don’t think so.”

  Isa smoothed out the wrinkles of the day dress. It was her mother’s dark green with high neck and snug long sleeves. No doubt Genny had chosen it from among the others because it was modest yet fitting. It felt tight over the thin layer of her cotton nightdress.

  Isa brushed her fingers through her long hair. “I wish they’d sent something to tie this out of my way.”

  Pierrette reached up, pulling a ribbon from her own unkempt hair. “Here.” She handed it to Isa. “It may help.”

  “But I don’t know if I’ll be able to give it back.”

  Pierrette laughed. “Confident you’ll be set free after the trial, are you?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I think the Germans will decide that.”

  Isa slipped her feet into the shoes. Something poked her toe from the tip and she hastily looked around to be sure she was unobserved before removing a small, crumpled piece of paper.

  She recognized the handwriting immediately. Edward . . . comforting her with Scripture. That alone was answer to prayer.

  She tucked the scrap of paper under her dress, noticing too late that Pierrette watched. The older woman smiled and looked away, without asking the obvious.

  Prisoners were given no breakfast—not that Isa cared. She doubted she could eat, especially with memories of the vile meal they’d been served the night before. Some sort of oats. Colorless, tasteless. Tepid.

  Soldiers soon returned and announced that Isa was to follow.

  Before leaving, Isa turned to Pierrette, wishing her God’s protection until the day the cell doors opened for her.

  “If we make it through our trials—both of us—perhaps we shall see each other again someday, yes? outside this prison?”

  Isa nodded, but her thoughts were already on what awaited her. She turned back to the guards and silently followed.

  The courtroom was in the back of the Town Hall. The room might have been a small meeting hall, but for the purpose of a German tribunal it was swept clear of all unnecessary furniture or images of wealth or Belgian patriotism. The walls were bare, even the windows barren of drapery. An oblong table was left at the front, with two smaller tables facing the one ahead.

  Few people sat on chairs toward the back of the room. She was taken forward and to the left, opposite those who faced her. Three men in military uniform sat at the head of the room, German officers of varying rank. To the right and behind one of the shorter tables with their backs to Isa sat more officers. They appeared to be in conference, oblivious to what went on around them or of her. At Isa’s table was a man in a civilian suit. He was an older gentleman, reading papers in front of him so diligently he didn’t notice her entry either.

  She looked around, fully prepared to see Hauptmann von Eckhart, but he was not there.

  Before long one of the three judges facing them called the room to attention. “Isabelle Lassone,” he said. “You will stand before the court.”

  She did so.

  “You have been charged with aiding an Allied soldier.” The man looked beyond her to those seated at the back of the room. “Meinrad Hindemith, you will stand.”

  Isa saw someone rise. It was the young man who had come to her home claiming to be an American, though his hair was combed differently. Confusion made way for realization. So her instinct about him had been right after all. They were trying her for giving a stranger a piece of bread? How had von Eckhart found out about that?

  “Step forward,” one of the judges commanded.

  Isa was about to move, but the man at her side put a hand on her wrist. She looked to see Hindemith stand in front of the judges.

  “Is this the woman who gave you aid when you posed as an Allied soldier?”

  He turned around to face Isa, taking a leisurely look at her. She remembered thinking he was a fine-looking young man, apart from the one crooked tooth, but now she noticed something he’d hidden before, more an attitude than tangible. He looked overly confident, puffed up.

  “Yes, this is the woman.”

  “How did she give you aid?”

  “She took me into her home and gave me food and drink.”

  “And did she offer help for you to find your way back to the Allied army?” another of the three judges asked.

  At this the man lost a measure of that pride. “She was obviously in sympathy for me as an Allied, as proven by the meal she offered.”

  “But did she offer a path out of the country?”

  He folded his hands behind his back. “No, but when I inquired how she returned to Brussels so suddenly, she was obviously hiding something. There is no doubt she smuggled herself into the country as a spy.”

  Isa opened her mouth to deny it, but the man beside her once again put a hand around her wrist. She looked down at him, every bit as bewildered as alarmed. Was he here to defend her or to aid the Germans with their charges?

  “You may be seated,” one of the judges said. “Isabelle Lassone, you will step forward.”

  Isa stepped around the table and took the spot the German spy had vacated. She held her chin high. If this was their strongest evidence, how much danger could there be? It was ridiculous, ludicrous to accuse her of something even their own witness denied.

  “Is it true that this man, claiming to be an American fighting for the Allies, came to your door seeking help?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you offer him help?”

  “He was hungry; I gave him bread. He was thirsty; I gave him drink.”

  The judge-advocate in the center merely raised one cynical brow. “So you are saying you would have done this for any stranger coming to your door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you discuss helping him get out of Belgium to ultimately rejoin his supposed army?”

  “He said that was his desire.”

  “And you did nothing to discourage this?”

  “I don’t remember what I said, only that I could not help him.”

  Another judge, the one on the right, spoke up. “How is it, Fräulein Lassone, that you vacated Brussels with your parents on the eve of this war and two years later showed up at your family home, demanding the soldiers billeted there be evacuated so you may live there again?”

  “I wished to live in my own home.”

  “Yes, but where were you for those two years?”

  “In hiding,” she answered, truthfully enough. “From my parents. They didn’t want me in Belgium.”

  “And do your parents know where you are since you’ve resumed residence in your family home?”

  “I haven’t been in contact with them.” Lately.

  “Have you been in touch with anyone outside of Belgium?” He spoke quickly as if to catch her off guard.

  “No.”

  There was a pause, and at some length the judge in the center told her to be seated. He looked to the Germans seated at the table next to Isa’s, and one stood to launch their case against the accused. Obviously she was an Allied sympathizer, one who did nothing to alert the proper authorities of an alleged Allied soldier at her very doorstep, thus permitting him to go about his proposed illegal plan. Not only did she hide this from said authorities, she willingly fed him, strengthening him to leave Belgium and rejoin the Allied armies. Thus, she gave sustenance
to the enemy. Not to mention the suspicious circumstances of her sudden appearance at her family home. Where was she for those two years? Why had she chosen to return to that home? He doubted she told the complete truth, and therefore she was capable of treachery. She should not be allowed to leave until a penalty was paid.

  Before any mention of specific penalty, the man at Isa’s side at last stood to address the court. He might have looked rather scholarly if he wore the robes of an advocate or at least a uniform like the others in the room. But although his jacket was tailored, his suit was shabby from wear.

  “Officers of the court,” he began with obvious respect, “I ask you to be lenient with this young woman, whose only crime was to act on her Christian faith and feed a hungry stranger at her door. It is as simple as that.”

  He paused for such a long time Isa thought he might be finished. And while there might be wisdom in simplicity, she wondered if such a short statement indicated her case was on the extreme end of unimportance.

  “As for the rest of the suspicions, these are unfounded and without evidence. She has said or done nothing to indicate her attitude as anything except that of a young Christian, without animosity toward Germans or the German Imperial Army. And might I remind you, with all due respect, that while she is the daughter of an influential Belgian family, she is indeed also an American citizen by virtue of her birth to an American mother in that country across the sea. A country that has done all in its power to aid those in need in this very country. I ask lenience, above all, because she is young and naive and did nothing more than act on her personal faith.”

  Then he sat down and the prosecuting German across the aisle stood again.

  “This is all quite sentimental, Your Honors, and I for one have heard more than enough. This woman is obviously an Allied sympathizer, and as for being an American,” he nearly huffed, “well, that means nothing anymore. Americans have had blatant disregard for our army for some time, while our people starve behind British blockades and the Americans do nothing to help. Everyone knows they sympathize with the British. That is why I ask this woman be taken to the prison at Vilvorde and held not less than six months, and since she comes from a family of wealth, be required to pay a fine of no less than ten thousand Marks.”

  Isa heard the request and her head spun. Imprisonment . . . six months. She vaguely heard the monetary fine, wondering if a buyer could be found with enough cash for the jewels she had left. Six months.

  The three judges at the head table conferred. There was no jury, and Isa was not asked to speak. She could only wait for the pronouncement of her sentence.

  At last the center judge told Isa to stand.

  Innocent or not, Isa felt her knees wobble.

  “We find the accused guilty as charged.”

  Isa’s heart sped and something fiery spread through her veins: disbelief and fear unfurled. Oh, God, oh, God, teach me what You have to teach me. . . . Help me to trust You!

  God’s hand alone held her on her shaking knees.

  “Further, we find the penalty requested fair.” He took a long look at Isa. “However, the court has decided upon leniency. Two months or five hundred Marks.”

  Relief and disappointment came at once, along with sure knowledge of what must be done. To willingly pay the fine meant supporting their army, their war. And while she could barely tolerate the thought of one more night behind bars with filth and mice and inedible food, it was all too clear what she must say.

  “I will serve the time.” Her voice was a child’s, not her own.

  “No one asked you to choose,” the judge at the left snapped. “It is entirely up to us when you will be freed.” He motioned to one of the soldiers who had been stationed at the back of the room. “Take her downstairs.”

  25

  It is obvious from the writings of the Prussian cavalry general Bernhardi that the Germans must assume the guilt for starting this war. They used their Press to convince the people that a “war of liberation” was necessary.

  May I say we at La Libre Belgique agree with the general on only one point: the power of the Press to stir the hearts, minds, and will of the people.

  La Libre Belgique

  * * *

  “I’m telling you, the sentence was lenient, and if you allow me to deliver the money quickly, they may very well let her go immediately. It will show her family’s wealth—and that equals power.”

  Edward heard the words and might have been disgusted once again by the German Kultur. But only one phrase coursed through his mind: “They might let her go.” He sat in the barrister’s office, nearly a dozen streets away from the Town Hall, where he’d waited all morning for the lawyer to return after his court session defending Isa.

  He reached for the money inside his satchel. He had enough, thanks to one of the jewels pawned from Isa’s cache. Edward counted the money needed, handed it to the barrister, and kept what was left.

  “Your parishioner was quite brave in the courtroom,” Monsieur Painlevé said as he accepted the cash. “No hysterics, which they despise; no crying or pleading, which makes them less likely to be lenient. She even had the pluck to say she would serve the time rather than pay the fee.” He shrugged. “That was perhaps not wise, but it is the way of patriots these days. Fortunately for your friend, they did not withdraw their leniency. You are lucky to know such a woman, Father Antoine.”

  The barrister hurried off, and Edward was again left with nothing to do but wait.

  Eventually he paced the office floor, back and forth, back and forth, glancing at his wristwatch again and again. He looked out the window but could see nothing more than the lush green leaves on the poplar in front.

  Edward judged it would take the barrister twenty minutes to walk to the Kommandantur from his office if he kept a brisk pace and wasn’t stopped by some zealous sentry. How long to pay the fine? Would he have to stand in the endless lines? How long to determine whether Isa would be released immediately or made to stay longer? The barrister had offered hope she might be released when the fine was paid, but no promises. Never any promises.

  And so Edward paced. But he did not pray.

  * * *

  “You should have smiled,” Pierrette said. “I don’t care how old some of these judges are, they won’t resist the smile of a pretty young woman.”

  “Smile! How could I have done such a thing? I was petrified.”

  “Well, at least tell me you didn’t act like some simpering girl.”

  Isa shook her head, at the same time untying the ribbon from her hair and handing it to Pierrette.

  “I’ll say well done, then.”

  Isa cocked her head. “Why do you know so much about the German courts?”

  “Did I not tell you? My brother is an advocate.”

  Isa didn’t mention that knowledgeable advice might have lent her a bit of courage earlier. “Will your brother help you when your case is called?”

  “Ah, no! He’s in Germany.”

  “Oh!”

  Pierrette’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He was deported.”

  Isa had only to remember the little she knew of Edward’s experience to feel a wave of sympathy.

  Pierrette shot her gaze briefly toward the guard at the base of the stairwell. “The next guard that passes this way may very well come for you, Mademoiselle Isa. To take you to freedom.”

  “Or Vilvorde.”

  “Vilvorde!” Pierrette exclaimed. “Who said anything about that place?”

  “One of the prosecutors. It’s where he wanted to send me.”

  Pierrette shook her head. “He was a mean one, then.”

  “Why? Vilvorde isn’t so far away. Like St. Gilles.”

  Pierrette laughed. “Do you know what they are saying, mademoiselle? That occupied Brussels is paradise, the Etappengebeit—the military zone—is purgatory, and Operationsgebiet—northern France—is hell?”

  Isa shook her head. She’d been so sheltered since returning she had
not heard that one.

  “Well, this place is paradise, St. Gilles is purgatory, and Vilvorde . . . that, mademoiselle, is hell.”

  * * *

  Edward looked at his wristwatch again. Two hours since Painlevé had left. Edward had tried to prepare himself that it would take longer than expected, perhaps an hour—but not double that. Desperation brought a prayer to his lips. Maybe Isa had been brought back to Belgium to help Edward renew his faith. If so, he assured God He needn’t let it to go any further.

  No sooner had the prayer left his heart than Edward heard noise in the hall. He rushed to the door to find an unkempt Isa, looking slight in the oversize raincoat obviously belonging to the barrister.

  “Isa!”

  At once he took her into his arms. Forget any hesitation; two days of worry shot away everything but relief that she was all right. The wet coat around her shoulders fell unnoticed to the floor, and Edward’s heart beat hard and fast, his hands trembling like a boy’s. He held her close and steadied those hands by placing one on each side of her face. For a moment she stared at him, tilting her face upward as if she fully expected him to kiss her.

  And so he did. Square on the tip of her nose.

  “Oh,” she said, trying to pull away, “don’t look at me! I’m a mess. My hair . . .”

  He didn’t let go, keeping his hands gently yet firmly on each side of her face. “You are,” he whispered, “the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

  He might have kissed her again, this time far differently, but he caught sight of the barrister looking on, arms crossed, staring without shame at the spectacle.

  The barrister was the least of the reasons Edward needed to restrain himself, but he let go of Isa nevertheless.

  “Well, Father Antoine,” he said, ushering them into his office, out of the hallway. “I’ve guessed already by your concern these past two days that this parishioner is quite important to you. But perhaps you might think about how your actions could confuse a young woman such as Mademoiselle Lassone.”

  Edward faced the barrister. “Yes, yes, of course you’re correct. I shall return her to my aunt, who is like a mother to her. You see, we’re very nearly family.”