A Rendezvous To Remember

Just poor Elodie. My sweet little sister.

She looks more like ten years old than sixteen.

Maman and Papa are fine right now, but from what I’ve heard, the war will bring us all up against tough times. We could starve, or get sick, or both. Grandmère and Grandpère told us so many horrible stories of the Great War. I thought it was something I’d never experience. Yet here we are.

Maman and Papa need me, but I feel sorrowful over the loss of my hope, my plan, to study English literature. I can keep reading, of course, but how will I find books? The Nazis are already censoring newspapers and even library books. There are rumors the schools may close, as they did during the Great War.

If I am destined to remain in Belgium for the duration, I vow to make a difference. Not just to Maman, Papa and Elodie. But to my countrymen. To the boys from my class who’ve been forced to work in German factories. To the boys who’ve escaped to fight with our allies.

I wish I were a boy so I could carry a weapon, too.

I will find out what I can do.

Melinda knew Grammy studied English as a girl and spoke and wrote it fluently by the age of sixteen. Her breath caught as she realized that Esmée had kept such a detailed account of her life in a foreign tongue.

Esmée had high aspirations for a girl back then.

Esmée’s Journal

September 14, 1940

My first wish has been granted. I’m officially a member of the Belgian Resistance! Maman and Papa are, too, but we associate with different groups. They’re working with the older folks, doing more in the way of disrupting our occupiers’ everyday misdeeds, like not cooperating when asked for papers or goods the Germans have no right asking for. But they have to be careful; if they anger the enemy and end up in jail, or worse, it won’t help any of us.

I’m in a more active group. Right now, we’re getting the local boys who stayed here in touch with their counterparts in England. Thank God for the radio. Still, we have to monitor each and every broadcast so as to not miss one clue the Allies might send us.

May 29, 1941

It’s only been a year, but it feels like ten. I worry for us all. Our food has been so limited. If this war lasts much longer, we may starve before we’re liberated from these evil bastards.

It’s my duty to provide for Maman, Papa and Elodie. We can’t expect Elodie to roam about the countryside looking for food or fuel to keep our house warm. Maman and Papa remain healthy but the war is wearing on them, and I see it reflected in the deepening lines on their faces, the sharper angle of their bent spines.

I pray for an answer.

Melinda took a sip of the tea that had grown cold and looked out the front window, past the Belgian lace curtains Grammy had ordered for her. It wasn’t dark yet, but hazy with the gray that comes before a late-autumn sunset.

Her surroundings, which she’d taken for granted only a few journal entries ago, seemed luxurious, even excessive. On her drive up from D.C. she’d actually complained to herself that her leather car seats weren’t heated.

Grammy had life-or-death issues to face when she was two decades younger than Melinda was now.

Esmée’s Journal

June 1, 1941

A miracle may have happened today.

I met a young man, recently widowed, who owns a farm a few kilometers south of here. It’s a little more rural than I’m used to, but the small town is familiar to me, as some of my schoolmates have gone there to live out the war with extended family.

His name is Henri. We met in Brussels at the Grand Place when I escaped to the city center, trying to remember what it used to be like. I was searching for some fresh vegetables for us, brought in from the countryside.

Henri handed me an apple.

He said he travels to Brussels to sell his produce as it comes in.

He’s lonely, I see it in his eyes. And he has food. Enough for all of us.

June 5, 1941

Henri took me bicycle-riding in his town today. We rode the train to the station, and walked to his home. I didn’t tell Maman and Papa what I was doing. They thought I was out doing Resistance work.

I was, but even Henri doesn’t know that. I told the leader of my group in Brussels that I may have an opportunity to move out to the countryside, to Le Tourn. He told me they’d be happy to have me working there, since that’s where many of the RAF insertions take place.

They warned me not to tell my new friend about my work. Just in case…

I can serve my country and keep my family fed with one simple vow.

June 10, 1941

Henri came by to meet my family today.

Maman and Papa were social enough, but I could tell this is not a man they’d ever trust. Nothing concrete, just an undercurrent of distrust. When he left, they fired their questions at me.

“How did you meet him? How do you know he didn’t find out you’re Resistance and isn’t going to turn you in? How can you be sure he’s loyal to Belgium?”

I can’t answer any of their questions without hesitation. But I know one thing—we won’t starve if I marry him.

He is kind and polite to me. He’s very interested in me, and although I’d normally not give his type a second glance, I have to be practical. I’ve never yet been in love, and with the war, I may never be. So why wait when I can marry a man who can provide for my family?

Henri? Grandpa’s name was Jack. Had she been married before? Had this other man been her first husband?

Intrigued, Melinda turned the page to Grammy’s next entry. She kept reading through 1941 and the start of 1942. Grammy married this Henri. The entries were bland at best, certainly no mention of undying love or passion. But nothing shocking, either.

Until she came upon an entry she’d never have believed Esmée Du Bois had written.

Esmée’s Journal

March 17, 1942

I hate him. As much as I’m relieved to write these words, I’m trembling that he’ll find me doing this. Or worse, he’ll find this journal and use it as another excuse to slam me up against the cellar wall.

He’s smart. He never hits me upstairs, where someone might see. No, he waits until I’m doing the laundry over the cellar fire, when I’m tired from the work and can’t fight back, as well. Then he comes up to me, a snake in farmer’s clothes, and sooner or later his hand reaches out and inflicts yet more pain.

If not for Belle, the Belgian Shepherd dog who showed up on our stoop last year, I’d have not one confidante. Henri threatened to get rid of her at first, but since she’s grown to ninety pounds he leaves her be. I make sure their paths don’t cross often. He’s incapable of compassion for any living creature.

I couldn’t go out to the market or see my family in Brussels for three weeks after the last beating. Can’t risk hurting them. If they see me they’ll know, even if they don’t see the bruises under my clothes. They’ll see the despair in my eyes.

I thought I’d done well for my family by marrying Henri. His kind words and thoughtful manner before our marriage seduced me, as did the food he’d provide for my family.

I never imagined what horrors awaited me.

Oh, Maman and Papa. Elodie! I miss them so much. They are also active in the Resistance and I fear for their capture. Yet they wouldn’t be my family if they didn’t do what they believed in.

And I’ve been able to keep them fed. Potatoes, beets, even some meat when Henri slaughters one of our remaining cattle. We have to stretch the meat, using a little at a time, but it keeps our bellies full enough. The hunger pains don’t hurt or distract as they did before I married this bastard.

Although, there are days I’m too nauseated to eat from the ferocity of his attacks.

April 16, 1942

The one good thing that remains is my Resistance work. He has no idea about it and never will. At first I didn’t tell him to protect him. Now I don’t tell him for fear of being killed, and all my work being for naught.

The group needs me. They need my information, my language abilities. I don’t speak fluent German but I understand enough to know when the bastards are planning another domestic raid. My English has improved, too, since I’ve worked with the RAF intelligence planted here.

Originally I’d thought that when I married Henri, he might support me in providing a safe landing spot for the spies England sends us.

I will never tell him about my Resistance work. It’s what sustains me, even more than protecting my family. When he’s smashing my jaw or I crack another tooth on a door frame from his strike, I just think of what our young boys are going through. We will persevere.

Belgium will be free again, thanks to our strength of will and our Allied angels.

Like manna from heaven they float down, infiltrate our society and use the information they glean to help the analysts back in London.

The war will end quickly.

Our Allies are strong.

If only I felt as strong. This morning, as he does every morning, Henri wanted me upon wakening. I’d prefer to keep our relations in the dark. It’s easier if I don’t have to see the devil when I have to suffer the weight of him.

And the brutality of his lovemaking. It’s not lovemaking; it’s forced violence. He rapes me every time. Except I don’t resist. What good would it do? He’d just knock me out with a blow and have at it anyhow. At least this way I can get up and do my best to wash away any chance of his seed implanting.

May 24, 1942

He’s angry. It’s almost a year and no whisper of a baby yet. At thirty-five he doesn’t want to wait. While I, at almost 21, pray he’ll die in his sleep, God forgive me.

I pray I can have babies with real love one day.

Even as I write this, I can’t say I believe love exists anymore. Not when my Jewish friends are being murdered, not when I’m beaten senseless for not making my pommes de terre tender enough.

I made a horrible mistake last week. In a moment of weakness, when Henri again mentioned his anger at no child from me, I suggested we could adopt. I have contacts. I didn’t tell him this, of course. With luck, we could adopt a Jewish baby. One whose parents have been sent away or will be soon. Several families in our town have adopted these babies, though it’s done quietly, without fanfare.

We could save a life and might even have a chance at saving our marriage.

At changing his heart.

He answered by shoving my head into the tub of water I’d used to wash the dishes.

“Do you desire a slow miserable death? That’s what the Gestapo will give us both if they hear your filthy talk. The only babies in this house will be mine.”

He kept ranting as he pulled on my hair, allowing me to gasp for air, then plunging my face back into the dirty water.

Sometimes I think of a different day, when I was young and looked forward to life and love. Before the Germans came back to our beautiful country and stamped out any hope of freedom.

Chapter 3

Esmée’s Journal

November 23, 1942

Winter is upon us. But my heart is far colder than any wind from the North Sea.

Yesterday I saw the ultimate betrayal. More painful than any of his slaps or punches or kicks.

I watched that bastard, my husband, give food—first-quality harvest and three pigs—to our enemy. He smiled and laughed, and even smoked a cigarette with them. He doesn’t think I saw them. He thinks I was busy in the cellar, boiling our linens. I fumed inside as he sold his soul for our country’s blood.

Thank you, God, that I never told him about my involvement in the Resistance.

Now I’ll have to be more careful than ever when I go out, which can only be when he’s either passed out from beer or when he goes into Brussels, which is rarer. I used to think he went into Brussels just to sell his goods, but now I wonder if he’s been making friends with the Germans all along. Maybe he’s charming one of their vile wives?

No matter to me. I am determined to get my family, my real family, through the war. I pray his seed never takes root inside me. God forgive me, I don’t want a child with this devil.

Melinda closed Grammy’s book and leaned her head against the back of the worn leather reading chair. She needed a break. It was as if the venom in Grammy’s words could burn Melinda’s skin more than sixty years after they were written.

She shoved her feet into her scuffed slippers and went to the kitchen to make a large pot of tea. She looked at the antique clock on the wall; she’d wound it last night.

She and Nicholas had bought this clock together, during a visit to Niagara-on-the-Lake. The intricate carving on the simple wooden box was yet another reminder of her own love gone bad.

Here it was, eight-thirty on a Saturday evening.

Dinner wasn’t even an option. Her stomach was as tense as her nerves. Tea was the only thing that ever helped her through these times, and there’d been many cups in the last few years.

The backyard light flicked on, evident through the toile curtains that hung halfway down the picture window, which ran the length of the kitchen.

Despite her nervousness, Melinda walked over to the door. Probably just some wayward raccoon or neighborhood cat, but it never hurt to check. She’d been living in the heart of D.C. for too long to ignore any hint of danger.

The baseball bat she kept at her bedside was upstairs. Her fingers itched for it. As she stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, the teapot started to whistle.

The figure of a large man loomed in the window of the kitchen door. Melinda screamed.

And then her brain registered what her eyes saw.

“Nicholas!” His name was a strange mix of strangled cry and whispered prayer. Before her feet could respond to her brain’s order to move, Nicholas had unlocked the door and it swung open.

He looked as tall and imposing as ever, albeit a bit slimmer than she remembered. He was bundled against the cold in a charcoal overcoat.

He’d always been the most attractive man she’d known, and still was. Her gaze went to his face, and met his blue eyes that, right now, blazed fire at her.

He hadn’t expected her any more than she had him.

“What are you—”

“Why are you screaming at me?”

They both spoke at once. Their eye contact remained steady while the words hung in the frosty air between them.

“It’s freezing in here.” She broke the contact and nodded at the door he’d left wide-open behind him.

“Don’t want that, do we?” He slammed the door shut with his foot, never moving his eyes from her face.

But the motion of his foot distracted her, and she glanced down.

And saw the cane.

She tried to look away before he saw her discovery but wasn’t quick enough.

His eyes narrowed, his mouth curled. He’d never accepted pity from anyone.

“You’re hurt?” Her words came out in a squeak.

“Nothing major.” He tapped the cane on the tile. “This helps me negotiate uneven ground—or with an intruder in my home.”

“You don’t have to be so snippy. It’s still legally half my home—for the next two weeks.”

She walked to the teakettle and took it from the hot stove. She hoped her actions conveyed a tranquility she didn’t feel. First Grammy’s venomous words and now Nicholas’s censorious presence.

“‘Snippy.’ Yeah, that’s how I’m feeling. Snippy.”

He strode across the room to the coat closet, the cane tapping in rhythm with his steps. The rustle of hangers and winter coats was followed by a muffled curse, just loud enough to reach her ears.

She stopped plunging her teabag into the cup.

It wasn’t like Nicholas to swear. At least it hadn’t been, not while they were married. Or rather, together.

Melinda bit her lip. How could she know what he was like now? They hadn’t communicated in more than six months. Not one e-mail, not one phone call.

There’d been times when Melinda itched to take advantage of her staff position in Senator Hodge’s office and use a Pentagon resource to trace Nicholas’s location.

But she hadn’t.

If Nicholas wanted her, he could find her.

He’d been in Afghanistan, last she’d heard. He could’ve died and she wouldn’t have known. Not until the casualty assistance officer knocked on her door. If Nicholas had even bothered to change her emergency-contact information after she’d left Buffalo.

“What are you doing here?”

“Aaagh!” Melinda dropped the bag she’d steeped too long in the hot water and whirled to face Nicholas.

Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t remember why you loved him.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? In case you haven’t checked, I’ve had no information from you in the past six months—except the divorce papers I was served with four months ago!”

She stared at him, as surprised by her outburst as he obviously was.

After a long moment, he glanced away. The anger that fueled her accusation ebbed but left her knees shaky. Melinda sank into the 1940s-style red-and-white striped chair nearest to her and looked down at the tiled floor.

Anywhere but at his eyes.

She heard the scrape of a chair, then a vibration as the table shook with Nicholas’s weight against it.

“You never responded to the papers, except to sign them.” His voice was flat. Melinda’s tension flared into resentment at his apparent nonchalance.

“What was I supposed to do, Nicholas? The last thing I knew, we were separating to see if living apart was what we actually wanted. I didn’t realize you’d already made up your mind.”

She hated sounding so pathetic but there it was. The truth as she saw it.

“The last thing I knew, you packed up and left for D.C.—a week before I had to ship out.” His quiet tone tugged at her and she risked another look at him.

She gazed openly at his strong features and noted that his skin appeared paler, more drawn. The lines that crinkled when he laughed made him look tired, even sad. But his eyes bore the intensity she’d always seen in him and for a second Melinda didn’t know how she’d lived without her husband these past months.

“What else could I do? I was reacting to the news that you were leaving again the best way I knew how.” Her words ended on a whisper, and she looked down at her hands.

Her bare hands. She wore her wedding ring on a thick gold chain around her neck. It had been Grammy’s chain from before World War II. Had he noticed?

His sigh reverberated around her. “Doesn’t matter now, Melinda. We’ve made our choices.” His fingers drummed on the table and she saw that he, too, had removed his wedding band. She didn’t think it was for safety purposes since he wasn’t in uniform.

“How long will you be here?” His question caught her off guard. She had Senator Hodge’s blessing to take at least two weeks.

“I don’t know.” Maybe Nicholas needed some time alone here, she thought, before they put the house on the market. Their home.

“Do you need me to be out of here?” she asked.

“This is your home, too, Melinda. All I want to know is whether I’m sleeping on the couch for tonight or if I should go ahead and unpack in the guest room.”

“Grandpa Jack gave me this journal of Grammy’s to read, and his diary. I’d planned to stay with him—do whatever he might need me to do before winter sets in. But he insisted I stay here.”

She shrugged, trying to appear casual. “I think it would’ve upset him too much if I fought him on this.”

Nicholas’s expression remained impassive. “Fine. Take your time,” he said. “I’m home for good, so after about a week or so I’ll be back at work full-time.”

His stamina was close to his pre-injury level. But he hadn’t had to test it in a real environment for so long.

His leg ached from the flight and the drive home. But he was secure in the knowledge that no one—not Melinda or anyone else—could tell just how much his active-duty stint in Afghanistan had cost him.

Esmée’s Journal

December 19, 1942

My hands shake as I write. This has to be the coldest winter on record. Or do I feel the damp penetrating every inch of my body because fear has left me hollow?

I managed to bring Maman and Papa enough turnips and potatoes to get them through the next week or so. I hid them in the folds of my old wool coat, which grows thinner each day.

I caught Henri snooping about our room and pawing through my few possessions. Having to act as if that didn’t bother me wasn’t difficult, as this journal, this account of my hell, is the only thing of value to me in the house.

I keep it hidden behind the old tapestry that hangs in our sitting area. The entire wall appears to be plain old brick. Several of them are loose, but I’ve dug out a hole behind one brick. I then placed another brick in the hole to the right, so that anyone who pulls out the front brick and reaches in will find an empty space.

I live in fear that he’ll learn about my work with the Resistance. Yet death would be preferable to the humiliation he brings with his ugliness and dark heart. There are times I want to take my rolling pin and crush his skull with it. But where would I go? To prison? Then my family would starve.

I will hang on as long as I can. As long as there’s food for Maman, Papa and Elodie.

The stove fights me each day. Henri has a stash of wood he monitors closely. If I use too much he smacks me. If I allow the fire to burn out, he uses his belt.

I live for the times he travels to Brussels, or wherever he goes. The house isn’t peaceful unless he’s out of it.

I told Philippe in our group that I live on a farm, and if I know that Henri will be gone long enough, our Allies could use one of our fields as a safe place for RAF insertions.

December 21, 1942

The phone rang the other day and I answered, hoping for news from Maman and Papa. Henri was out in the field, earlier than usual. I picked up the receiver and before I could say “Hallo,” I heard a string of German before the caller hung up.

For some reason—pure luck?—we’re one of the few homes that still has our phone line connected.

So now they call Henri at home. What kind of creature is he that he supports the enemy so blatantly during our worst years in Belgium? While my male classmates and cousins fight God-knows-where for our release and freedom from these bastards.

I long for the day the Germans will go home. If it’s up to me, they’ll go home in shame, having lost to our Allies.

And Henri will go with them. If I live that long, I’ll divorce him as soon as the War is over. I don’t care if it ruins my life. He already has. Divorce will ruin my reputation but will save my soul. What’s left of it.

Chapter 4

Esmée’s Journal

December 25, 1942

This is a Christmas I will always remember.

I now have a man to nurse back to health and a husband to grieve. I don’t grieve for Henri, but I grieve for the marriage that never was. For the hope I had at the beginning. For the hope of what I once thought was a mutual friendship that might blossom into a true marriage.

Let me start again.

I’ve learned during the past weeks that Henri has helped the Germans rout out the Jewish children from our village. He even knew where they were staying if they’d been sent to relatives.

As he beat me for what would be the last time, he snarled, “I’ll bet you think they’re the same as us, don’t you? Don’t you?” I said nothing. I couldn’t; my lip was swollen and bleeding. But I laughed inside as I knew that once I told the Group what Henri was up to, they’d take care of him. And I had to tell them. It wasn’t about my conscience or my soul. It was about saving innocent lives. The Nazis occupy our country but they can’t take my heart. And I’d die before my husband (in name only) could give them one more piece of information.

I went to Midnight Mass on my own on Christmas Eve. I figured Henri had some urgent evil business, so I went to pray it wouldn’t work out well.