bakers in September, unable to get flour even from the CRB.
Isa didn’t speak, only listened, until all the noises around them grew still, and after a while Pierrette talked herself to sleep. Isa lay there in the silence, unable to stop wondering what God had in mind with this.
“You will put this on.” The guard thrust familiar clothing at Isa through the bars. She heard shoes drop to the cement floor with a clunk and reached for them eagerly, scooping them against her chest.
Isa turned to hastily change, removing her robe and for modesty’s sake pulling her dress over her nightgown. The guard, she noticed, made no effort to leave or turn away until she was finished.
“So,” Pierrette said with a half smile, “either they have shown you a kindness or they take you to trial.”
Isa caught the word. “Trial?”
“Will they try you in your nightgown, for all to see how they arrested you? I don’t think so.”
Isa smoothed out the wrinkles of the day dress. It was her mother’s dark green with high neck and snug long sleeves. No doubt Genny had chosen it from among the others because it was modest yet fitting. It felt tight over the thin layer of her cotton nightdress.
Isa brushed her fingers through her long hair. “I wish they’d sent something to tie this out of my way.”
Pierrette reached up, pulling a ribbon from her own unkempt hair. “Here.” She handed it to Isa. “It may help.”
“But I don’t know if I’ll be able to give it back.”
Pierrette laughed. “Confident you’ll be set free after the trial, are you?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I think the Germans will decide that.”
Isa slipped her feet into the shoes. Something poked her toe from the tip and she hastily looked around to be sure she was unobserved before removing a small, crumpled piece of paper.
She recognized the handwriting immediately. Edward . . . comforting her with Scripture. That alone was answer to prayer.
She tucked the scrap of paper under her dress, noticing too late that Pierrette watched. The older woman smiled and looked away, without asking the obvious.
Prisoners were given no breakfast—not that Isa cared. She doubted she could eat, especially with memories of the vile meal they’d been served the night before. Some sort of oats. Colorless, tasteless. Tepid.
Soldiers soon returned and announced that Isa was to follow.
Before leaving, Isa turned to Pierrette, wishing her God’s protection until the day the cell doors opened for her.
“If we make it through our trials—both of us—perhaps we shall see each other again someday, yes? outside this prison?”
Isa nodded, but her thoughts were already on what awaited her. She turned back to the guards and silently followed.
The courtroom was in the back of the Town Hall. The room might have been a small meeting hall, but for the purpose of a German tribunal it was swept clear of all unnecessary furniture or images of wealth or Belgian patriotism. The walls were bare, even the windows barren of drapery. An oblong table was left at the front, with two smaller tables facing the one ahead.
Few people sat on chairs toward the back of the room. She was taken forward and to the left, opposite those who faced her. Three men in military uniform sat at the head of the room, German officers of varying rank. To the right and behind one of the shorter tables with their backs to Isa sat more officers. They appeared to be in conference, oblivious to what went on around them or of her. At Isa’s table was a man in a civilian suit. He was an older gentleman, reading papers in front of him so diligently he didn’t notice her entry either.
She looked around, fully prepared to see Hauptmann von Eckhart, but he was not there.
Before long one of the three judges facing them called the room to attention. “Isabelle Lassone,” he said. “You will stand before the court.”
She did so.
“You have been charged with aiding an Allied soldier.” The man looked beyond her to those seated at the back of the room. “Meinrad Hindemith, you will stand.”
Isa saw someone rise. It was the young man who had come to her home claiming to be an American, though his hair was combed differently. Confusion made way for realization. So her instinct about him had been right after all. They were trying her for giving a stranger a piece of bread? How had von Eckhart found out about that?