In the Fall They Leave, page 18
“I agree.”
At two in the morning the matron and Marie-Thérèse enter the isolation ward with bowls of broth and slices of bread. “Henri” appears to be sleeping comfortably. At her voice he opens his eyes, sweat no longer glossing his forehead, though his cheeks are still red with stage makeup. “Michiel” hasn’t wakened. The lamp casts weak light, yet Marie-Thérèse sees that the towels she placed over the pillows are stained with makeup and must be changed.
“You did well,” the matron tells Henri, whispering. “Are you sure you both weren’t actors in a repertory company? Michiel’s laugh was quite convincing.”
She has rehearsed them well, Marie-Thérèse thinks. One of the symptoms of rheumatic fever is sudden uncontrollable laughter—or weeping.
“So good,” Henri, an English captain, says, “that now our run will be extended.”
Scabs and sores cover his head. His eyebrows are still thick and dark.
“For a while longer. But he didn’t get a good look at either of you. He was too taken aback by your diagnosis. I may be able to come up with understudies for you both.”
In the next bed Michiel thrashes, waking. He’s eighteen years old, the matron has told Marie-Thérèse, and like many others in his battalion, was cut off from his unit and left behind in the general rout. A farmer near Flerbeck hid him—and, soon after, hid the captain—for several weeks in his hayloft, when it was safe to do so, and in the manure pile whenever German soldiers were in the vicinity. The two had finally been conveyed to Brussels under sacks of turnips and potatoes, both filthy and reeking of manure. The private now stutters when he tries to speak and so says little. His laugh, though, perfectly conveyed hysteria. He’s from a village near Canterbury, in Kent, he told the matron, stuttering. Then he cried. Marie-Thérèse was given the task of shaving off his rust-colored hair and beard because of the fleas and lice. Both men’s bodies have been bitten raw, the bite sores resembling the inflamed and sometimes bloody rashes of rheumatic fever.
Given what they’ve been through, it’s astonishing they haven’t, in fact, come down with a streptococcal infection. But at least, Marie-Thérèse thinks, the awful sores inspired the ruse.
“I want to show you both something,” the matron says. She sits between the beds, facing them, while Marie-Thérèse stands near the closed door. The matron takes several flint pebbles from a pocket. “These are from Scolt Head Island in Norfolk. Do either of you know the place?”
“My wife and I went there several times on holiday!” the captain says. “I liked to do a bit of bird-watching. Sandwich terns, little terns, the arctic terns, the waders and wildfowl, so many species it was really quite marvelous.”
“Did you ever walk across the mudflats at low tide?”
“Oh, indeed! Many times. My wife, Margaret, and I would take a picnic hamper and stay the day. May I?” He extends his hand.
She gives each of them a few pebbles to hold. The private is crying again, though quietly. The captain studies his closely. “I do remember these, yes, of course! Of little interest then, but now!”
“M-m-may I k-k-eep them?” the private says.
“It’s best if I do so for now. But you shall have them for your journey.”
The captain hands his back. “And you believe it’s possible.”
“I do, Captain. Tell me, are you from Norfolk?”
“No, Sussex, but we enjoyed traveling there, Margaret and I. She loves to sketch, you see.”
“So do I.”
“Then we might have seen you out there and thought nothing of it. Imagine!”
“It’s quite likely.”
The captain’s eyes are lively now, and Marie-Thérèse is relieved. Possibly there’s strength in certain memories. Even courage. And he’ll need both, given what he’ll have to do for himself and the private. Getting safely out of Brussels is one thing, but then traveling through occupied country for another fifty miles, or more if they have to take a roundabout route, quite another. These two will be monks traveling to their home monastery a few days before Christmas, or possibly even Christmas Eve. Monks who have taken vows of silence. They’ll have breviaries and rosaries as well as identity and travel papers complete with photographs and also handwritten notes in German, stating their destinations in South Holland.
While they finish their broth and bread with a mere trace of butter, the matron tells them that hope is every bit as important as food. So they must have hope, which is not unlike faith itself. Marie-Thérèse finds herself listening intently.
It’s after three in the morning when Marie-Thérèse finally lies down, the luxury of non-movement so pleasurable she doesn’t want to relinquish it to the oblivion of sleep just yet. For a few moments she allows her thoughts to flow where they will. Those two and five in the cellar and two in a hidden attic compartment. If it were only the matron, she thinks, it paradoxically might not seem so impossible. But the matron—and she herself—are part of La Dame Blanche now, a small army of resistors that includes aristocrats, craftsmen, farmers, clergymen, fishermen, barge pilots, priests, a pharmacist, the gardener, some students probably, and who knows how many others. Given all that, absolute secrecy seems only a comforting myth.
At the sound of what might be footsteps, she jolts to attention.
Charlotte?
The doctor?
The bell at the Abbeye de Cambre rings four times. Then, in the quiet, she strains to listen again but hears only freezing rain striking the panes like bits of gravel.
You cannot go on like this. Sleep!
In the morning two other British men arrive in full daylight, entering through the clinic’s main door. That makes twenty British soldiers from the Mons fighting and ten French infantrymen from the battle of Charleroi and a Belgian who doesn’t give his rank or company and may be a deserter, all now part of a group called by its own code name: Les Enfants Perdue.
The Lost Children.
Joyeux Noël
On Christmas Eve, students roll the Bechstein into the dining hall, while Marie-Thérèse and several others decorate the fir tree the gardener found for them. Sister Depage serves pastries which astonish and delight everyone. There’s even hot chocolate. At one point the matron and a third-year named Maurine slip out of the dining hall.
“Where are they going?” Liese asks.
Marie-Thérèse pretends nonchalance. “The wards?”
“Maurine was there all day.”
“Well, you know. Always something more to be done.” She immediately regrets the words.
“It just seems odd, their slipping out like that. I should probably mention it to him. He said anything out of the ordinary, remember?”
“Oh, Liese. Maybe Maurine just wants to talk with her. Maybe she can’t get home for the holiday either and is feeling…sad.”
“Charlotte told me she heard voices again the other night, at the public entrance. This time, she said, she went down to see. No one was there.”
“That’s not unusual. It might have been some emergency and the person taken up into a ward. Were you on duty? Or, it might have been Papa. He has to—”
“I checked the log. No one was brought in that night. And, no, I wasn’t on duty. I was asleep. I still think we should tell him about such instances. I don’t want to be killed for whatever she might be doing here.”
“No one is going to be killed. No one is doing anything wrong.”
“How do you know? I keep thinking they’re going to destroy this place. I think it’s a premonition. I really do, Marie-Thérèse.”
Sister Depage comes up to them with her tray of pastries. Like the matron, Marie-Thérèse knows, she’s excellent at observation. Marie-Thérèse asks where she managed to get so much flour and sugar, and the chocolate and milk. Sister Depage only smiles and urges them to have another. Liese asks about Doctor Depage, and treating them like patients, the woman edits out all but the most basic information. He’s in France, somewhere behind the trenches.
“Was he able to get a letter to you?” Liese asks.
Sister Depage offers her impish smile. “They do manage to get through.”
“How fortunate!”
Heat scorches Marie-Thérèse’s face. She’s relieved when Sister Depage moves on to others.
Liese steps closer. “I still think it’s better to tell him something. We could say voices. Just that. Or even something about letters being conveyed from the front and probably not through any censor’s office. It might help us later.”
Marie-Thérèse stops herself from shouting Liese’s name. When she finally does speak, it’s in her quiet nurse’s voice.
“I don’t think it’s right to cast suspicion on anyone without the least shred of proof. We’d be no better than those who…who destroyed Louvain. Don’t you see?”
“That was different.”
“A while ago, Liese, you were saying how you hated it here and wanted to leave. I think we’re all overtired and prone to nerves. Maybe a short leave of absence would be helpful.”
“My plan is to finish up and get out as soon as possible.”
“You won’t if she goes to prison. It’ll be hard to find another qualified instructor, with everyone overworked in all the hospitals. That’s what will happen if you go telling him made-up things.”
“I knitted the girls stockings for Christmas.”
“Pardon?”
“Elli and the little one. I made them stockings. To keep their feet good and warm.”
“Oh! That was thoughtful.”
“I have a sister Elli’s age. I sent her a pair too. I hope she gets them.”
Marie-Thérèse recalls that giving little gifts is another way Liese forges alliances. The stockings a strategy. Or is it? With Liese, one can’t know. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to spend Christmas with your family. I’m sure they’ll miss you.” And she is sorry. There’s just something about Liese.
“Oh well, at least we’ll be stuck here together. But again. Will you at least consider telling him about the voices?”
“No, Liese, I won’t. I think it’s unwise. Besides, do you really want to do that on Christmas?” By now the tree is finished, the tables set up for the following day, and a few students are singing. “Let’s join them.” Without waiting, she walks over to the piano.
Later, in the matron’s office and the door closed, she begs her to have the remaining Allies removed and refuse to accept any more. The matron inclines her head as if in thought, but when she speaks, it’s only to send Marie-Thérèse back to the wards. It’s nearly midnight by then.
Marie-Thérèse wants to be joyful. More than joyful, she wants some firm, even brazen hope melded to faith that all will be well.
Soon church bells all over the city are heralding the birth.
On Christmas Day, she has to fight off sleep during the early morning Mass at Saint-Boniface. To her shame, her drooping head keeps snapping up at some swelling organ passage. She wishes she could be filled with a sense of His presence but feels only fatigue and foreboding. Yet Elli and Janine are on either side of her, bundled in warm coats from America. And Papa is there too, on the other side of Janine. He’s forgiven her. And this, at least, is something. A large good something.
A complex fragrance of roasted carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and winter squash mingling with the deeper scent of roast beef drifts from the dining hall. Side tables hold dishes of plum pudding and sweets—most of this bounty the result of gifts from neutral nations and benefactors. The occupiers, it’s rumored, don’t want food rioting and so allowed the donations after the British briefly lifted their blockade. And all that making the clinic’s annual Christmas party possible this year.
Marie-Thérèse notices that the children are wary and hesitant at first. The year before, their exuberance was barely in check. While guests enter the dining hall, she plays Christmas carols but thinks that it may take more than seasonal music to raise spirits. When a girl of about five comes up to the piano and watches, Marie-Thérèse breaks off and tells her, “Press this key down while I play. Count to four each time and then press down.” Soon the child is depressing the C-natural key at four-count intervals. Then Janine is there too, and Marie-Thérèse gives her a C-natural in a higher octave. The first child looks at Janine and smiles each time she presses her key. When Marie-Thérèse glances at the two girls again, she almost stops playing. Janine’s eyes are fixed on the other child and her mouth is forming a shy smile. But as other children rush to the piano, also wanting to play, Janine’s hand slides from the keyboard, and Elli leads her from the group. Whoever wishes to play gets a turn, the old piano forgiving enough and ringing out discordant merry sound. And in that maelstrom, an idea forms. Mon Dieu, Marie-Thérèse, you didn’t see it before? You are so thickheaded.
After the festive meal, Janine and Elli go to the matron’s table when their names are announced, both girls in red woolen dresses and blue shawls. The matron lifts Janine up and announces that she and her sister are to distribute the gifts this year. Then it begins, the grand distribution, as silence falls over the hall. The matron calls a name, and the first child, a girl, approaches with self-consciousness to receive her gift, passed from Elli’s hands to Janine’s, and then to hers. After each child has received a present, they all begin opening their gifts, finding shawls and scarves and stockings, dolls, toy boats, caps, mittens, mended dresses and boys’ pants and jackets, some of these things from as far away as America. An older girl has received Marie-Thérèse’s shawl and immediately wraps it around her shoulders, the aquamarine striking, with her blond hair, the long tassels dangling. By now children are shouting and running about.
Closing the festivities, Marie-Thérèse accompanies everyone singing the old carols in French, Flemish, English, and Latin. There is even the haunting “O Tannenbaum.” Children sing several carols a cappella, momentarily transforming the dining hall into a church. While in a grand house on the rue Louise, Herr Doktor Kuhn raises his champagne flute to toast the Fatherland and its glorious future.
Leaving the civilian ward later that night, she encounters the gardener who apparently has been waiting in the hall. He bows, cap over heart, before presenting her with a wrinkled envelope. It bears no German stamp overprinted with Belgien 3 Cent, only her surname and the address of the clinic. The handwriting is her mother’s. She hardly notices that he’s standing there, head bowed, as she eases open the glued flap and reads the missive’s three sentences.
Ma Chérie,
Your father is ill. Please come at once. The bearer of this letter will tell you more.
She looks up. “Do you know where they are?”
“Breda.”
“Is that a town or a village? I must get there as soon as possible, but I’ll need travel papers for Antwerp, and that will take time, but what about after Antwerp? Can you help? Will you watch over the girls while I’m gone?”
“Oui.”
“Merci, Papa!” She grips his rough hand in both of hers. “Joyeux Noël!”
Winter Light
The gardener accompanies her to the Gare du Nord, the two of them using trams this time. It seems an age ago when they’d gone to meet the matron’s train on that momentous day in August. And now, nearly six months later with no end in sight to the war, the armies stalemated along the Western Front, each facing trenches running over six hundred and forty thousand kilometers. At the Gare du Nord, no newspaper boys are shouting the news. There are just the ubiquitous posters proclaiming German victories. It strikes her again that Belgium might be an occupied country for many more months, even years, possibly forever. But just as on that August day, people are flowing through the station, only now, a preponderance of soldiers and stretcher bearers and wounded, the world reeling on in some almost ordinary frenzy while not far away, men are dying in scores every few minutes.
A child selling apples.
A woman selling eels.
Nine wrapped corpses on a baggage cart.
They find the right platform and waiting train. “Papa, take care of them. Reassure them that I will return. I will be a returning bird! And you must be careful, s’il vous plaît.” He bows, cap over his heart. She boards the nearest car and takes a window seat in a compartment, then looks out at him. He appears to be praying.
The car fills with military men in greatcoats, their voices like some rockslide in the confined space. Three officers enter the compartment, acknowledging Marie-Thérèse with a Guten Morgen, and hang their greatcoats on hooks near the door. The largest of the three pulls at the back of his uniform jacket and then all but falls backward into the seat next to hers. “Oof!” he cries, expelling a great breath. The other two, both thin and much younger, take opposite seats. One immediately shuts his eyes. The other is quite pale, she observes, except for hectic patches on his cheekbones. He lowers his head and gazes at his clasped hands.
The gardener is still holding his cap over his heart. As the train jolts and then slides forward, she places her right hand on the glass until her carriage is well beyond the platform. Finally, she leans back in sunlight and, pretending ease, lets her eyes close. But in the next minute the officer alongside her is saying, “Do you mind, Fräulein?” He holds a cigarette in one hand, a silver lighter in the other.
“Nein, Nein. Please go ahead.” The man’s drooping cheeks are flushed. His voice rather kind.
“Danke! Would you care for one?”
“Nein, sir, danke. I don’t smoke.”
“Ah. Good. Never take it up then. Right, Hans?”
The pale one agrees.
“He’s not well, you see, and the doctor told him to stop smoking. I am being quite bad doing so in front of him, but what can I do?”
The two pips on his shoulder board indicate that he’s a colonel. The younger men, she thinks, may be his aides. Odd that they would be traveling by train and not military automobile. But that might explain the one’s sullenness. The colonel faintly wheezes as he inhales smoke and then expels it, a long, satisfied exhalation. She’s tempted to offer some advice of her own.
