brows drew together. “Do you remember me saying so many sentences depend on the whim of the court?”
Edward nodded.
“Doktor Stuber is presiding tomorrow. His whims are never good.”
Edward swallowed, afraid to ask the obvious. “Who is Doktor Stuber?”
Painlevé cleared his throat as if stalling to let Edward have one last moment of peaceful ignorance. “Doktor Stuber is a judge-advocate known for demanding the death penalty . . . upon men, upon women, even upon boys too young to be called men.”
The last time Edward had been filled with this kind of desolation, he’d been standing over the rubble of his family’s hotel and home. Maybe it was a leftover habit, maybe it was a faint memory of his father’s wishes, but Edward was reminded to pray. He hadn’t known what difference it would make and didn’t now, either. All he knew was that day he’d refused.
This time, he didn’t.
36
La Libre Belgique, Special Edition, January 20, 1917
The immense Palais de Justice sits on a hill above the city, the most prominent of buildings in the most prominent of places, as if to say that justice watches over all. This building that once offered Belgian justice now flies the black, white, and red, flag of an occupying army. Lined around its walls are sandbags, and at each corner near the statues of Justice, Law, Force, and Royal Clemency now sits the black orifice of a great cannon, aimed at the very city the building itself was once dedicated to protect.
Inside the Senate chamber today began another mass trial of those suspected of involvement with none other than this paper, La Libre Belgique. Sculptures of great Belgian history tucked within carved mahogany panels overlooked the accused. They sat upon benches fashioned into semicircles, with bayonet-bedecked sentries at each end. Nearby, four Belgian barristers frantically conferred among themselves, having only just been given their cases.
Facing them all were the German judges in field gray, medals shining in the light. The bench at which they sat was covered in green baize, where rested their dark leather gloves and silver spiked helmets. The president of this tribunal sat in the center: Doktor Stuber. For those La Libre Belgique readers who have not had the displeasure of meeting him, Doktor Stuber has a look of cruelty about his grim-visaged face. La Libre Belgique has it on solid authority that he is stern in public and demanding in private, critical of those around him, insensitive toward others while secretly thin-skinned. To him, everyone is either a superior or an inferior—there exist none equal to him. Belgians are the latter of the two.
Prosecutors were to present their strongest cases first, no doubt in a wish to begin with the harshest of sentences. To incite the others to either tell the truth or face consequences of their lies? Or simply for the iniquitous Doktor to watch the faces of those who must follow sentences of severest magnitude?
They called the first victim. Isabelle Lassone.
A woman stood and stepped before the judges. She might have been pretty once; who could tell? Her face was covered with bruises, her loose, peasant-style dress soiled and shapeless . . . and somehow familiar. This court has seen prisoners brought in before wearing just such hideous garb. Her hair might have been lovely some time ago, probably blonde if allowed to be clean. Instead, much of it was shorn close to her head, with oddly missed strands sticking out at peculiar angles.
How thorough the prosecutors were to include altering the image of the accused so as not to arouse unwanted sympathy in the men who would judge her.
They recited the list of crimes she’d committed against the Imperial Government: illegally housing the press and printing La Libre Belgique, writing for La Libre Belgique, distributing La Libre Belgique. Indeed, they accused her of being the very core of the organization, the cellar of her residence reputed to be the legendary “automobile cellar” that had for so long produced the illegal newspaper.
Added to that crime, this Mademoiselle Lassone was formerly found guilty of aiding an Allied soldier, at which time she was shown pity and given a light sentence of a mere fine. Most recently, while housed in St. Gilles, she incited a riot within the cellblock, refusing to carry out work generously provided in order for inmates to productively pass their time. She inspired others to sing a banned song of Belgian patriotism. She is, members of the court were told, a leader and a spark, one