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, they 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.
Thoughts of his destination inevitably led to thoughts of his wife, which by contrast led to thoughts of Genny. If Max had learned anything by now, it was an ability to denounce personal desires for a greater goal. By sheer discipline of mind he concentrated on his duty, and that, coupled with prayer, brought him some measure of peace. Certainly he’d had none of that while spending so many waking hours wishing he were free to devote himself to Genny.
He sat next to his things. Silence again, something he’d forgotten during the days he’d spent with her. He would have to say good-bye to her soon, not at all certain his discipline of mind would be enough to get him through.
* * *
Genny read the first line of her book three times before absorbing its meaning. She should be grateful that Isa’s home offered so many books from which to choose; reading had always been a favorite way to pass the time.
She’d been reading in the parlor because she could still perform the job Edward and Isa needed her to do: make sure the Major was well away from the kitchen or pantry. But Genny couldn’t deny, if she was to be honest with herself, that she’d far preferred talking, playing