by Maureen Lang
He’d grown far too familiar with this battle but so far had not lost it. Instead he cleared his throat, the collar on his priest’s vestments suddenly too high, too close. “Which reminds me. I can get more money from Father Clemenceau, but I doubt he’ll be able to replace what we used from your fund last week to pay for the ink. Again. It seems we’ve done nothing but use the money you brought along. How much do you have left?”
She shrugged, turning back to the typesetting box.
“Tell me, Isa. What is left?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
Taking the compartmentalized box of letters from her, he gently turned her around and tilted her face toward his. “You do know, Isa. Tell me.”
“I have two of the gold nuggets, one of the jewels.”
“And the cash?”
“Gone.”
He’d known that would be her answer. It meant only one thing: they were likely stuck in Belgium, unless they could depend on the connections they had at the paper to help with an escape, if needed. But how could the financiers behind the paper help—whoever they were? Funds were always a problem.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“That I didn’t bring more. My parents have so much, and we could use it.”
He laughed. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you missed your parents’ money.”
She gasped and started what surely would have been a protest except he laughed again to convince her he’d only been teasing.
They returned to their work and continued into the night, until Edward heard Isa yawn again. Without a word, he went to the light switch. At the end of each day, they waited for the all-clear signal from his mother, who spent most of her time keeping track of the Major, distracting him when necessary.
The light was on. All clear.
As they went upstairs, Edward couldn’t help but think of the hours his mother was forced to spend with the German. It rankled him, and that she didn’t complain only made it more irksome.
Edward was surprised to see it was past ten o’clock. He should have left earlier.
He barely made it to the front door before his mother joined them. As usual, she smiled to see him.
“You are both working too hard,” she said.
Edward shook his head. “It’s not work—well, at least not by most definitions.”
“You’re both getting too little sleep and too little to eat. But I won’t say any more. Far be it from me to become an overprotective mother hen.”
Edward put an arm around her shoulders. “Too late.”
She poked his side with her elbow. “I know I shouldn’t object. I’ve never seen the two of you so happy.” She looked from him to Isa. “Clara told me something interesting today. She said she met someone at the CRB food line who said she knew you.”
“Who?”
“Pierrette Guillamay.”
“An old boarding school roommate?” Edward asked Isa.
“Well, a roommate, but not from boarding school. We shared a cell at the Kommandantur.”
“Why was she arrested?”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t sure. Perhaps for counting trains.”
“How did she know Clara worked for Isa?” Edward asked his mother.
“That was what was so interesting. Evidently Clara was shorted today. Something about the number of coupons she turned in not matching the amount of food she was given. When she returned to work it out, this woman was there with the same problem. They started talking, Clara mentioned where she worked, and the Guillamay woman said she knew Isa. Actually, she came home with Clara in hope of seeing you.”
“Pierrette was here?” Isa asked.
“Yes, but of course I told her you were out and I didn’t know when to expect you. She stayed and talked with Clara for a while. The two seemed to get along quite well.”
“Pierrette is the friendly sort.”
Edward studied her. “I’ve heard of German spies posing as prisoners as an attempt to get fellow inmates to incriminate themselves or someone they know.”
“She seemed authentically Walloon to me. Her French was excellent—and she lost a son in the war. Besides, she didn’t ask too many questions and talked more about herself than questioning me.”
Edward shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway, I suppose, unless she turns up again and starts making a pest of herself, snooping around.”
Isa laughed. “Oh, Edward, you are the worrier. I’m sure she’s harmless. As a matter of fact, I’m rather sorry I missed her. She was good company.”
“Oh? Ready to take her downstairs to help pass the day, are you?”
“A simple hello might have been pleasant.”
Edward prepared to leave by taking up the coat he’d brought from the cellar. “Well, if she comes back again, just make sure that’s all it is. There’s a reason no one trusts strangers these days.”
“Of course you’re right. But don’t forget she was a victim of the German justice system, same as me.”
“Perhaps.” Edward kissed his mother’s cheek. “Good night, Mother. We’re nearly finished running the new issue, so you shouldn’t have to spend much time with the Major tomorrow.”
Then he buttoned his coat and bid Isa good night, stepping into the freezing December air.
27
It is bad enough what German soldiers do to Allied soldiers, killing them. But what they do to us, the living civilians under their occupation, is appalling as well. They have eliminated our freedom and disallow our dignity.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
“I believe, madame, your fox is surrounded.”
Genny looked at the carved wooden board between them, with her lone red peg entrapped by a number of yellow ones. Indeed, the Major’s geese surrounded her fox, despite her best effort to keep it free.
“Let’s see,” she said, sitting back, “you’ve bested me at fox and geese, hoppity, even cribbage. I’m tempted to give up on games altogether and challenge you to something you couldn’t possibly win. A lace-making contest, perhaps? I’m not very good at that, either, but I’m confident I might beat you there.”
“How about something easier than that? a foot race?”
She caught his eye, wondering how he could jest so easily over his disability. But then, in the past weeks of keeping his company, she had learned a great deal about Major von Bürkel. Max, as he insisted she call him. It seemed silly to continue calling him Major after how close they’d become.
For weeks now she’d spent several hours a day with him when he did not go to the Kommandantur or to the hospital, where he worked with other soldiers nursing wounds similar to his own. Sometimes, like today, she shared his company even when Isa wasn’t home and Edward was off on one mission or another.
Guilt only occasionally nagged her anymore for enjoying Max’s company so much. Day after day, sharing stories of their children, of their own childhoods, of memories that made them laugh or nearly cry, it was easy to forget that it was her job to distract him. Easy to forget that was all she should be doing, all Edward expected her to do.
“How do you do it, Max? This war changed your life forever, your body, your future. And yet you go on.”
“Have I a choice, Genny?”
He only called her by name when he was sure they were alone, and even then only rarely.
He stood, going to the window, looking out. “When I see those boys at the hospital, I think the ones who lost only a limb are the lucky ones. Those, like me, who weren’t out there for very long.”
Max looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes bleak. “What kind of world have we made for those who will be left? The world your husband and my sons knew is gone, I’m afraid. Perhaps forever gone.”
Genny joined him at the window. They could hear the sound of the guns off in the distance, and only yesterday an Allied plane had been spotted overhead. No doubt trying to bomb the zeppelin hangars at Ghent. Genny had r
ead in the German papers that a German plane had intercepted it and shot it down.
The street was empty now, but she knew, out there, armed soldiers still marched, parading through the Grand Place, tacking placards of new rules on ancient buildings, rolling cannons down the avenues as a reminder of their might. Surely it wouldn’t forever be this way, where guns ruled behavior.
As they stared out side by side, Genny found herself unable to imagine a future different from the past she knew and missed, different from the present she resented.
Max put a hand on her shoulder as if whatever vision he saw was too somber to bear alone.
* * *
Isa stood at the flat’s curtained window, watching the street below for a sign of Edward. He was late.
She glanced behind her to Rosalie, who lingered nearby. She’d arrived precisely on time to pick up her share of La Libre Belgique, minutes after Jan left. There were not enough remaining copies for Rosalie to take all she needed, Jan having claimed most of what Isa brought.
Despite knowing Rosalie was as dedicated and trustworthy as anyone else in their network, Isa barely knew her. She never spoke to Isa, rarely made eye contact with her. On any occasion Isa was with both Edward and Rosalie, Isa had watched them for a sign of intimacy, something to indicate that their relationship was more than just workers sharing a goal worthy of their lives.
But there was nothing.
Shifting one of the only two chairs in the flat closer to the window, Isa sat. Transporting finished copies of La Libre Belgique was her least favorite task, taking them from her home to this flat registered to a fictitious William de la Quarrere. From here the newssheets would be available to various distributors like Jan and Rosalie, then moved to secret depots throughout the city. From each of those, copies found their way into letter boxes as far away as Antwerp and Ghent. And though the paper rarely totaled more than a couple of sheets printed back to back, transporting several thousand copies was no small mission. She had set out first, with a ream of copies spread evenly beneath her clothing. Edward was to follow with the same, plus an attaché case with concealed compartments.
She’d expected Edward to arrive shortly after she had, but she’d been here nearly a half hour with no sign of him. Worry soon took the place of the awkwardness of sharing Rosalie’s company, and for a moment she wished they were friendly enough that she might voice her concern about Edward’s tardiness.
Perhaps she’d become too lax in her day-to-day trust in divine protection. When was the last time she had coerced Edward into praying with her before they set out? How many days ago? Why had she let him go yesterday, and the day before, and now today, without prayer?
Oh, God, dear God, watch over him now.
“You love him, don’t you?”
Isa looked at the other woman.
Rosalie gave a half smile. “You needn’t say it. I can see that you do.”
Rosalie was a Fleming, and her heavily accented French made her sound almost German sometimes.
She crossed her arms, and Isa noticed her long, graceful fingers. How many times had Rosalie administered Edward’s disguises with those lovely hands? Isa was grateful his new identity didn’t require such ministrations.
“But he hasn’t accepted that love, has he? No, you needn’t admit that, either.”
Isa turned back to the window, wishing Rosalie had let the silence continue. She didn’t want to hear whatever Rosalie had to say, even though part of her told her she must listen. Rosalie might not have known Edward for as long as Isa had, but she knew him. Well.
“Do you know the reason he won’t accept love?” Rosalie hadn’t moved, still leaned against the far wall, near the door. “He is consumed by this paper, by the danger it brings. Has he told you yet that this is not the time to indulge in love? in life? because death could be so close?”
Her words, each of them, stabbed Isa’s heart. Did she and Rosalie have a bond, then? Both rejected by Edward?
She leaned closer to the window just as a figure caught her eye, one moving briskly but oh so familiarly. Ignoring Rosalie, Isa hurried to open the door, watching him enter from the street and take the stairs two at a time. Attaché in hand.
“I was beginning to worry.” Her words sounded so breathless it could have been she who’d just bounded up the stairs. She closed the door behind them.
“Yes, I thought you might.” He barely looked up, only thrust the case on the table and opened it. “Father Clemenceau needed several hundred copies and couldn’t wait until later, so I went there first.”
“I was wondering what could have kept you.” She hadn’t realized she was trembling and so near to tears. Results of worry or Rosalie’s words. . . .
Where was she? Isa scanned the one-room flat, seeing that Rosalie had moved behind them, into the shadows. Edward hadn’t yet seen her.
Edward took one of Isa’s fidgety hands. Despite the cold outside, his fingers were warmer than hers. The radiators in the flat were unheated today; undoubtedly there was no coal for the boiler in the cellar.
“I thought you didn’t worry?” Edward brushed away a tendril of her hair that had escaped the neat bun she’d twisted at the back. “You said God is protecting us.”
“God, Edward?”
Isa had wanted to make the inquiry, but if it had been her, those same two words would have been hopeful, inviting. As it was, Rosalie’s voice teetered between surprise and skepticism.
He turned to Rosalie, still holding Isa’s hand. For a moment Isa was tempted to withdraw, even though Edward had held her hand before. Letting him hold it now, in front of Rosalie, seemed to say something it didn’t mean.
“Yes,” he said. “Isa spends most days reminding me to pray. And I must admit I haven’t minded.”
Then he did drop her hand, but not before sending an extra smile her way.
“I’m glad,” Isa whispered. “Perhaps you’re growing into your vestments.”
Rosalie approached and took up the copies, already bundled, that she would conceal in her satchel. “You should consider the priesthood permanently, Edward.” She looked at him. “It would give you a solid reason to refuse the women who fall in love with you.”
She transferred that fixed gaze to Isa before stuffing the copies of the paper into her satchel, and then she left the flat.
Isa moved to busy herself by separating the remaining copies from the attaché while Edward removed more from beneath his coat. Additional distributors were expected, but neither she nor Edward needed to wait. She wanted to leave now, right away, before Edward had a chance to dwell on Rosalie’s words.
He stacked the copies from his coat next to those Isa took from the attaché. “Did you and Rosalie have some sort of . . . discussion while she was here?”
“Barely. Why do you ask?”
“You didn’t think it odd, then, what she said before she left?”
“For you to become a priest? Perhaps you should.”
He laughed. “Me? With the history of my faith? I’m not even Catholic.”
“Your faith never left you. You didn’t acknowledge it for a while, but it’s been there.”
“Let’s not discuss the possibility of my becoming a priest, shall we? Let’s discuss why she said that to begin with. To give me an excuse to refuse women who love me? She made it sound as though there were a number of them, so would you please direct me to such a line?”
She couldn’t make light of the topic as he seemed eager to do. “Perhaps there are more women than I’m aware of, but as it is, I know of only two.”
They stood not a foot apart, but a barrier filled that narrow space. If he refused to discuss this with any sort of sincerity, Isa would know she and Rosalie did indeed share that bond. Maybe someday Isa might thank Rosalie for making Edward face this topic once and for all. For helping them to get it over with, to know if Isa had anything to hope for or if she was just another woman, like Rosalie, whom Edward couldn’t love.
If he said n
othing . . . or turned away with a jest . . .
“Two?”
She nearly sighed with relief. So at least he would face it. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Rosalie . . . and me.”
“You, Isa?”
She wanted to scold him or run away because he surely knew but was making her say it anyway. “You know I love you, Edward. It’s why I came back.”
“You came back for my mother.”
“And you.”
“And Jonah.”
“But it was you. Really.”
Another long moment, as if that invisible barrier allowed neither one to move or to touch the other.
“Is this the wrong time for love?” she asked. “Because of the danger? Because it would make us less careful? Is the paper all we should devote ourselves to? Maybe you believe loving someone now would make the loss too great, unbearable, if one of us were caught.”
“All of that is true. And more. It would be unbearable if one of us were caught, especially if we planned some sort of future together. What kind of future could we have, anyway? We’re not at all fit for one another. You with your family, me with my university burned to the ground.”
Edward stepped closer, breaking that barrier between them. “But I do love you, Isa. Your faith, your courage, even your stubbornness.”
She looked up at him, pulse racing, light-headed. Caution tried to stop the race. “You—you love me? How? In what way?”
For a moment she was sure he would take her in his arms, finish this confession of love in the way she’d dreamed of often enough, with a kiss. Instead, he turned away, stepped back to the attaché, and put his fingers to the locks. “I love you. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”
She’d barely heard the words between her heart thumping all the way up to her ears and his quiet tone. This was hardly what she’d waited so many years to hear.
“We can’t leave it at that, Edward. Not until you define the kind of love you’re talking about.”
