who inspires followers in her rebellious ways. For that reason alone, a harsh and memorable punishment must be granted.
Crime: Verrat in einer Zeit des Kriegs. Treason in a time of war. Proposed sentence: Todesstrafe. Death.
To her credit, this Belgian patriot swayed only slightly when the requested sentence was announced. No hysterics, no tears. She closed her eyes and stood stiff as if blocking out her surroundings. Other prisoners behind her appeared shocked, afraid, timid. Just the sort of reaction the virulent Doktor Stuber undoubtedly craved.
The defense barrister stood. La Libre Belgique was still in operation, he claimed while balancing passion with caution. Despite the accusation that this woman was at its core, a new issue had been found only that morning. A nimble hand had pinned a copy to the sentry just outside the Palais de Justice door. Nor was there evidence she’d ever written for the paper. The Allied soldier, the spy to whom she’d given aid, had himself admitted she didn’t offer to help him flee the country.
The barrister finished with a plea for leniency of the court, reminding them that she was an American citizen by virtue of her mother and her birth in that country. To condemn one of their own to death now, when an apparently endless number of American men might soon be called against Germany, would only inspire them to their arms all the quicker.
Doktor Stuber need barely have listened. It is the way of German justice to see only one damning fact at a time. After all, Isabelle Lassone’s home housed the infamous automobile cellar. (La Libre Belgique offers this with a grim irony, as our surroundings are untouched, our paper still free, our voice undiminished.)
And while the Germans prove once again the sham of their justice, La Libre Belgique will mourn the shortened life of yet another lovely young patriot.
Those German citizens filling the streets of Belgium who knowingly support the continued injustices perpetrated by their country are guilty, at the very least, of criminal blindness.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
37
Edward stumbled on the pavement. A nearby sentry looked his way and Edward turned, afraid of attention. He walked. Not slow, not fast. He no longer felt the cold, didn’t care when the wind stole his hat. He paid no attention to where he headed. Inside his head spun a whirlwind.
Though he’d spent the morning spinning more productively—seeing to final details regarding distribution of La Libre Belgique’s special edition—with that finished, Edward could no longer push away the truth.
A death sentence. Firing squad.
The words echoed in his head, over and again with the same result. Death.
Nausea accompanied each vision of Isa at the hands of the Germans, sent to Tir National like the others.
He didn’t even have the comfort of going to his mother or to his friend Jan—both sentenced to labor in Germany. His mother for three years’ servitude, his friend deported to a work camp.
And so he walked. He must move, must clear his mind of images too ghastly to withstand. One step led to another; it didn’t matter where he went.
At last, the twin towers of the cathedral loomed overhead. He should go inside and pray. He should plead with God to save her, and maybe somehow . . .
Edward kept walking. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. His jacket was not enough to ward off the chill. Yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know where to go.
He could go to Rosalie’s abandoned home. She’d gotten safely away, and Jonah too.
But Henri hid at Rosalie’s, and Edward didn’t want to face him. He couldn’t tell him. Not yet.
The bells rang at the chapel he shared with Father Clemenceau. He hadn’t meant to come here; he hadn’t been back since Isa’s arrest for fear of being arrested as well. The one time he’d met the father was under cover of a crowd, and neither had been dressed as priests. Now Edward found he didn’t care about the risk. He made his way into the sanctuary.
Walking slowly up the aisle, Edward stood before the altar. But he did not bow.
Instead, he folded his arms and stared at the crucifix.
“Edward! What’s happened?”
His voice was so soft and compassionate that for the barest moment Edward felt a childish response: he wanted to burst into tears. But instead he turned to one of the seats and sank onto the unyielding wood. He spoke quietly, telling the priest about the sentences.
“I don’t know what to do.” Edward swallowed again. He knew only one way