Read Online Whisper on the Wind by Maureen Lang - Free Book Online Page B

looked around hoping to see a soldier calling attention to someone other than them.
    There was no one.
    Slowly, Edward pulled his arm from Isa’s and slipped his hand around hers. He took Jonah’s hand as well and the three of them leaned together on the pavè as one. For a moment he was tempted to thank God he’d just rid himself of his contraband, but the thought ended there.
    “You will show your papers, please.”
    Edward saw Isa scramble to get her papers first and stuff them under the nose of the stern German soldier. He was broad shouldered and strong, despite his thick glasses that no doubt guaranteed his position in occupied territory rather than at the front.
    “And you?” He eyed Edward.
    The soldier looked at his Passierschein , perhaps less closely than Isa’s, and when he handed them back, he didn’t even address Jonah, who still stood nearby but, Edward noticed for the first time, had not produced his identification.
    “Very well. You may go.”
    Edward was the first to turn away. He thought he’d gotten used to these searches. Blast Isa; why did she have to be here to see things like this, anyway?
    After they turned the corner, Jonah laughed.
    “What’s so funny?” Edward asked.
    “I didn’t have my papers!”
    Edward eyed him. “And you find that funny?”
    “He didn’t ask for them, did he?”
    “He’s right about that,” Isa said with a grin. She winked at Jonah. “I thought you were going to give those angels a rest?”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” Edward asked.
    “Only that I’ve been important to God lately,” Jonah said.
    Isa tousled Jonah’s hair. “I couldn’t agree more.”
    * * *
    They reached the home they shared with Viole and her husband by noon, although Jonah left them before that. With so many school days interrupted for one reason or another—German raids, imprisoned teachers, lack of supplies—Jonah was one more Belgian with too much time on his hands. He disappeared when they passed a house he said belonged to a friend.
    Noon was one o’clock German time, the clock having been changed shortly after the invaders arrived. Other than for the trams and trains, no Belgian seemed to pay attention to the change.
    Genny and Viole sat on stools just outside Viole’s home, busy making lace. Isa watched, amazed as their fingers nimbly chased thread bobbins through a maze of pins protruding from a stiff, round pillow inset with a patterned cylinder in its center, each with a set on her lap.
    “Genny! I didn’t know you made lace.”
    She laughed. “I don’t, at least not well. Viole is the expert. She’s been trying to teach me for years.”
    Viole looked up. “It’s the only way to make a bit of money these days now that your American ambassador’s wife arranged for lace makers like myself to make my own designs. We’ve had only this one grace since they came, those dirty Germans.”
    “Go on in and have a bit to eat,” Genny said without looking up. “There’s fresh bread on the table.”
    “ Fresh bread?” Isa repeated.
    “The CRB provides the flour to the baker,” Genny explained. “And he sells to those who can afford it or accepts the bons —you know, the tickets—of those who can’t.”
    Isa shook her head. That the Committee for Relief in Belgium had set up a process to sell bread wasn’t what shocked her. “In England they’re only selling bread that’s at least twelve hours old. I came from America to England, and from there to Holland—”
    Viole broke in. “We don’t want to hear about that, mademoiselle . Why do they sell old bread there, anyway?”
    “Because fresh bread makes one eat more.”
    The others laughed, loud and long, starting with Edward.
    “Oh, Miss Genny,” Viole said after a moment, “I know you’ve blood as English as it comes running through your veins, but those Englanders you left behind can be a silly lot, can’t they?”
    Isa was glad they seemed cheerful, although she wasn’t convinced the