by Maureen Lang
Suddenly he turned to her again and clutched her shoulders in a way that was anything but romantic. “I’m asking you to forget this, Isa. To wait. To go on as we were before.”
“So you’re rejecting me in the same fashion as you must have rejected Rosalie.”
“What? Exactly what did she say to you?”
“Only that you won’t let yourself love someone because it’s too dangerous and now is not the time to lose your head.”
“True, every word, and I have no right to let either one of us get carried away with anything but caution and concern for the paper.”
She shook her head. “So I’m supposed to forget this? forget that you love me? that I love you?”
The pressure on her shoulders increased. “Isa, I saw sixteen men—good men—die at the hands of German soldiers. I should have been one of them. Since then I’ve seen a dozen people arrested, all because of this paper. Yet here I am, free. Why? Am I supposed to live as if something like that isn’t just around the corner for me, too? ignore the danger, hope for a brighter future, when there isn’t supposed to be a future for me?”
“How can you not deserve a brighter future? You’ve been careful. You were stronger than those who died because of the work camp. God has protected—”
“Stop! Isa, just stop.”
And so she did, but she was no less confused than a moment ago. “I don’t understand. You love me and yet you want me to forget that you do?”
“Nothing’s as it should be; you know that. Before the war, you wouldn’t have entertained notions of marrying someone like me, bound to be a professor of all things. And I . . . how could I ever fit into your family, with parents who waste all their time at parties and a brother who thinks I’m barely fit to tie his shoes? We’re not facing any of that living the way we do now, but it won’t be any less real when this war ends. And it will end. So we’ll forget all of this until the last German has marched out of Belgium.”
“No, Edward.” She pulled on the sleeve of his cassock. “I won’t ever forget your telling me you love me, even if this war did ruin the way it should have been said.”
Then it was she who closed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his in a way that left no doubt as to the kind of love she felt for him.
* * *
Edward was helpless to stop himself. He drew Isa closer than she’d allowed a moment ago, so that it was no longer her kissing him but rather the other way around.
But even as he lost that grip on control, he fought his way back. This could not happen. He couldn’t let it.
“Isa, Isa,” he whispered as he pulled her away. “I can’t.”
“But, Edward . . .”
He stepped back fully, outside of her arms, away from her touch that addled his brain. He shouldn’t have told her, shouldn’t have admitted he loved her. Even though it was true. Even if it meant she would take it for a rejection, the same kind he’d given Rosalie. Even if it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t. Not now.”
He grabbed the empty attaché and left the flat.
28
And so the cannons rattle over our streets, but it is not just our city they trample. They trample all that is good, all that is just, all that is right. We—each of us who passively resist—are living testimonies to what they have done. And for those whose blood has stained our fields where poppies once bloomed, we offer eternal testimonies.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
Genny breathed deeply and for a moment between slumber and wakefulness felt a smile on her lips. Jonathan lay beside her, whispering that he loved her. She enjoyed his kiss and raised a hand to caress his image . . . but the very act of lifting her arm broke the link to that place of dreams, and reality returned.
She turned to her side, clutching the pillow beneath her head. “Oh, Jonathan.” And then her tears tumbled to that pillow.
Some time later she went to the pitcher and bowl and splashed icy water on her face. She combed her hair, dressed, straightened the covers on her bed, then faced the door but was suddenly reluctant to leave the privacy of her room. Heaviness made every effort greater this morning, a heaviness she was just beginning to understand. Her affection for Max weighed heavier all the time; the larger that affection grew, the larger the burden.
She left her sanctuary and headed to the stairs, knowing she would pass his room on the way and listen, as she did every morning, to hear if he was awake.
But the music room door was already open.
“Genny!”
She stepped inside, where Max was just rising from his chair with the help of his cane. Before him was the table they used to play games, this time covered with a white cloth and set with tea, toast, and what looked like a tin of jam.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said with that most disarming of smiles, the one that revealed the streak of shyness running through him. “I’ve asked your Clara to bring breakfast in here, enough for both of us. Will you join me?”
She nodded, even though the instant she saw his face, the image of Jonathan came back, so vivid from the dream.
Max held out a chair for her, then reclaimed his own at the intimate breakfast table. He didn’t wait for her to pour tea but instead, like the host he was, poured for her.
“We have jam this morning,” he said happily. “Straight from Germany.”
She watched him finish serving her, taking a piece of the toast, spreading it liberally with the red confection, and handing it to her.
“Maybe,” he said slowly as she took it from him, “when you’ve finished with that, you might tell me why you’re downhearted today.”
He seemed to have made himself a student of her, claiming it his business to guess her mood and the reason behind any fluctuation. While it was flattering to be of such interest to someone who obviously found greater challenges fascinating, it was also unsettling.
“I had a dream this morning.” She sipped her tea. “I dreamed Jonathan was alive, here with me. I miss him.”
She welcomed the sympathy in his eyes, grateful that her memories of Jonathan never ignited awkwardness between them.
“Dreams can be gifts sometimes,” he said. “A visit with someone we miss.”
“Have you had such a dream?” she asked. “Of your sons, perhaps? or . . . your wife?”
He’d rarely spoken of her, and the few times Genny had mentioned the mother of his lost boys, he had discreetly but quickly changed the subject. But she’d found herself more curious lately, for reasons she wasn’t ready to explore.
“No,” he said abruptly.
“Max,” she said, setting down her tea, “we’ve shared so much in these past weeks. We’ve become friends, and I must honestly admit I’ve shared more with you than I have any other man except Jonathan. But I’m not sure you could say the same.”
He lifted a skeptical blond brow at that. “Do you think I’ve been secretive about myself? After I’ve told you everything from my pettiest peeves to my biggest disappointments?”
“Only about one subject.”
He looked downward, suddenly seeming as melancholy as she felt, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the cause.
“You’re right, of course. If I’ve guessed at some of your moods, Genny, you’ve guessed—and been correct—at more of mine.”
He placed one of his hands on the table, thumbing the handle of the knife he’d used moments ago. “You once accused me of methodical thinking. And of course I’m guilty as charged. But there is a part of my life I haven’t been able to put into any neat compartment, explored and understood. I mean you, of course. And my wife.”
Genny’s heart pattered in her breast. Why should it matter to hear him talk of his wife?
“The funny thing is, I’ve prayed about this nearly since the first moment I saw you standing at the door of my room.” He looked up at last with a half smile. “Do you remember that day? You’d come after Jonah and somewhere along the way lost your shoe
like the girl from the fairy tale.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
“I suppose we should have discussed this already,” he went on, “except that discussing it seemed to make the problem real, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it. That’s unlike me, I know, because I normally attack whatever challenge I’m faced with. It’s why I’m so good at games, I suppose. But nonetheless, here it is. I think you’ve guessed, by now, what I’m getting at.”
She wasn’t at all sure, although perhaps in part because she didn’t want to be. “You’ve hardly spoken of your wife, Max. I assumed you were a widower, else why wouldn’t you have gone home for your recuperation?”
“Yes, that’s a logical assumption. And perhaps I’m making something of nothing by telling you she isn’t dead, that in fact she is very much alive and living in Germany.”
Genny stiffened and didn’t know why. Why should it affect her one way or another? And yet she couldn’t deny that her insides went leaden, heavier than they’d been when she first walked into the room.
His chair was not far from hers since the table was so small. When she’d placed her tea down, she’d let her hand rest nearby, close to his. Now he put his hand over hers.
“We’ve become close, Genny, and friendships are always rather complicated between a man and a woman, aren’t they? Even without a war going on, one in which we happen to belong to opposing sides. I don’t know if it makes a difference to you that I’m married. It shouldn’t, but somehow, to me at least, it does. Because of how close we’ve become.”
Pulling her hand away, she tried to smile. “We’re friends. Why should it matter if either one of us is married?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“I wonder why you haven’t told me, though.” She strained to keep her voice light and easy. “Why you’ve said so little of her.”
“I will tell you now if you want to hear.”
She nodded.
“Käethe and I were married young. Too young, I suppose. I wasn’t yet finished with my schooling. I was quite different back then. I was home from university and saw her during the Christmas holiday. We were both rather rash and foolish.” He paused as if to skip over certain memories and shifted in his chair. “At any rate, she became pregnant and I hurried home from Paris to marry her. She returned there with me, and when I graduated and obtained a job, we lived off the generosity of my parents—who were all too happy to have us living in Paris, where no one would count the months from our wedding date to the birth of our first son.”
Max leaned back, rubbing his forehead, closing his eyes a moment. “We were happy enough. We had Thomas, our first, then two years later, Karl. Then we moved back to Germany, close to family, and simply lived. We raised our boys together until one year we realized we loved our children but no longer one another. It’s what comes of marrying too quickly, I suppose, and for the wrong reason.”
He paused again, looking at her briefly, then away. “I’ve envied the memories you have of your husband. I know you loved him, and your love never dwindled.”
“All marriages have an ebb and flow,” she whispered. “Perhaps that’s what happened in your marriage, and that original love can be recaptured.”
“Käethe lived for her boys. Her boys alone. When they died, she found she had nothing to live for anymore.” He leaned forward again, pushing away his plate, folding his hands where it had been. “Thomas was killed only days after Christmas in ’14. Karl died two months later, and I went home to grieve, to be with her. But she was gone. Not physically, but inside. She didn’t even know my name. The grief had taken her away.” He paused again, breathing once deeply. “She lives in a convent now, where the sisters take care of her. I get a letter now and then from one of the nuns, after I’ve sent money, keeping me informed of her general health. She eats; she sleeps. That’s all. She doesn’t speak; has never asked for me; has never, on the occasions I’ve visited her, even recognized me.”
Genny placed her hands in her lap, her heart aching for a woman she didn’t even know, a woman whose life was so shattered and empty. “With the sisters, you say?” she asked quietly. “Surely they’ve tried to speak to her, tell her that even in the midst of her pain, God is there, grieving with her? Has she no hope at all of feeling God’s love?”
“I don’t know.”
Genny leaned forward, never more sure of anything than what she was prepared to say. “You must go to her, Max, now that you’ve come to better understand God’s love yourself. She needs to hear it, and maybe from you, she’ll be able to listen.”
“Ever compassionate, Genny.” He frowned and looked away. “More so than me, I’m afraid. You’re right, of course. I should go to her, especially now that I’ve discovered a faith that’s helped me in so many ways. I should have thought of it myself. Perhaps I did, but . . .”
“But?”
He looked back at her. “But I haven’t wanted to go. I haven’t wanted to leave here. You.”
They were words she wanted to hear, but she squashed the attempt her heart made to fly. “Then that is all the more reason for you to go.”
She stood, leaving the breakfast uneaten. He stood as well, and at first she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“I think it wise that we don’t allow ourselves to be alone anymore, Max. I know that we’re only friends, but there’s been a sort of intimacy about our friendship that no longer seems appropriate.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. It was all my own foolishness. I thought—I thought that I could be your friend and nothing more. But I was wrong. It’s I who’s sorry, Genny. And I am. Profoundly so.”
She could think of nothing else to say, and so she backed away from the table, feeling the chair behind her. Awkwardly she stepped around it, each movement so tense she thought her bones might crack from being put to use in such a state. Somehow she made it to the door.
“Will you go out today, Max? Please? Away from here, away from this room? To the hospital, perhaps? Or . . . elsewhere?”
“Yes, Genny, I’ll go.”
29
The slave gangs will arrive here in Brussels, have no doubt. And to think the world once thought all of Europe so civilized.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
“Have you tried using the rice flour they’re making these days? It’s closer to white, at least.”
“Ah, but the taste! We are known for excellence, for the lightness of our pastry, the flakiness of each layer.” Pierrette shook her head in disgust. “We must not form our precious little tarts into tasteless lumps.”
Isa laughed, enjoying the exchange between Clara and Pierrette. It was the first time in two weeks that she’d felt herself again, having been muddled by a haze of confusion. Edward loved her, but couldn’t. He loved her. But didn’t. He loved her and perhaps loved Rosalie, too, but not either one enough to conquer whatever ghosts he carried with him from the camp. Isa hadn’t even told Genny because Genny seemed in a world of her own lately too.
Edward had been to the house only once, and that was to work the press. He hadn’t directed a personal word her way, not even a hello or good-bye. And she waited, hoping all he needed was time to realize their love was real and vital.
Isa had found Pierrette’s company a pleasant diversion, while Genny was once again reclusive.
“You did love your work, didn’t you?” Isa asked now.
“But of course! Every artist does.”
Clara, still at the sink, tilted her head to one side. “Artist? I thought you were a baker, same as your husband.”
“Baker! Bah, what sort of term is that to describe fifty-two variations of pastry? And my cakes! Oh, if I but had the right ingredients, Clara, I could show you what an artist I am.”
“You are certainly right about the rice. Here we are, nearly starving, and they send us something like that. Ach, it’s hard to get down.”
Pierrette nodded. “Yes, t
hey should take pity on us.”
“It’s been hard for everyone, being unable to work,” Isa said. “How is your husband?”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “It’s why I came today! To tell you my good news—that my dear Jean-Luc was acquitted of the phony charges against him. He was let go only yesterday—think of that, after so long in those awful cells awaiting freedom.”
“Two months! And that dreadful food.”
“Oh, please, do not remind me!”
The ringer at the front door sounded and Isa jumped. Would she ever forget the day soldiers had come to her door? But then, would the Germans ever use the ringer instead of the butt of their rifles?
Clara wiped her hands on a towel, then hurried from the room.
“Tell me, Isa,” Pierrette said, “what you’ve been doing since you were freed. Since we lost our shop, we’ve struggled to get through the days. Boredom is not easy, is it?”
“No. But I’m learning to sew lace, and I have Clara and my dearest friend here with me, so the days aren’t so long.”
“Ah, yes, Madame Kirkland. She is English, yes?”
“Well . . . yes, but she’s lived here in Belgium more than ten years.”
“And the Germans, they have left her alone anyway?”
“Why shouldn’t they? She’s done nothing wrong—even though they killed her husband.”
“So she is a victim of them too. Those Germans. How I hate them!”
Just then Clara rejoined them, and Isa asked her who had been at the door.
“A sentry for the Major,” she said. “Something must be happening to him. It is the second message this morning already!”
* * *
Max ran the Passierschein between his thumb and forefinger, refolding it and placing it on top of his few belongings. Arrangements had taken nearly two weeks, but a driver from the Kommandantur would come for him in a few hours, bringing an army-issue duffel bag to hold his belongings. Max would soon be transported to the train and on to Germany.
He looked around the room. He would leave it as he found it, with the single exception of the wear on the Bible that had been in perfect condition some months earlier. He would have liked to take it because it held much meaning for him, and obviously its former owner had no use for it. But he would find one of his own. Perhaps at the abbey.
