Fall of Poppies Read online

  Contents

  The Daughter of Belgium, by Marci Jefferson

  The Record Set Right, by Lauren Willig

  All for the Love of You, by Jennifer Robson

  After You’ve Gone, by Evangeline Holland

  Something Worth Landing For, by Jessica Brockmole

  Hour of the Bells, by Heather Webb

  An American Airman in Paris, by Beatriz Williams

  The Photograph, by Kate Kerrigan

  Hush, by Hazel Gaynor

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Daughter of Belgium

  Marci Jefferson

  November 7, 1918

  Brussels, Belgium

  SISTER WILKINS CAUGHT my eye from across the nurse’s parlor of Institut Cavell. The day I’d been dreading had arrived. The British nurse had lost much during this war, though she knew better than anyone that I’d lost more. She also knew my secret, and that I’d do anything to protect it.

  “You’re leaving,” I said.

  “The new hospital is finally finished.” Sister Wilkins spoke in French, like all the nurses here. “If I don’t move the nurses and patients in soon, the governor general will claim it for German wounded. I can’t let them have what Matron Cavell worked so hard to build.”

  Matron Cavell had designed the new hospital, then watched construction stall when the Germans marched into Belgium on their way to conquer the world. The German occupation had changed everything here in Brussels. Those who dared defy them, as Matron Cavell had done, paid with their lives.

  I tried not to panic. “She wouldn’t want me turned out on the street. She saved my life.”

  Memories flooded unbidden, and I saw the group of drunken soldiers coming to claim my family’s tea shop as their new lodgings that first year of the war. The shop was also our home, so Papa tried to defend it. Fists flew, rendering Papa and Maman unconscious. That’s when the Germans held me down. They violated me, then used liquor from their flasks to light the shop on fire before fleeing. It took neighbors an hour to put it out.

  Maman’s head wounds put her into a sleep from which she never woke. Her slow death weakened Papa. That, and the knowledge of what the Germans had done to me, eventually killed him. I’d tried to hide my disgrace, to ignore the pain between my legs. I never cried in front of him, but the walls between our upstairs bedrooms were damaged. For a month I ran back and forth from Matron Cavell’s clinic for medical supplies and advice on how to care for Papa. He often experienced pains in his chest. One day, they simply overtook him.

  That was the day I realized I’d missed my monthly bleeding. It was the day I used Papa’s penknife to open my wrists.

  Now, three years later, safe at the clinic, Sister Wilkins put her hands on my shoulders. “Is that what you think, Amélie? That I’d turn you out on the street after all you’ve done to help this clinic?”

  My tension eased a little. “No amount of dishwashing and cooking can repay you for housing me and my—­”

  She put a finger over my lips. “I must prepare for tomorrow’s move, so listen to my proposal.” She trailed from the parlor and started upstairs, crisp skirts and white nurse’s apron rustling. “There is one case whose condition is so delicate we must leave him behind.”

  I followed her, stunned. “You’re leaving a case? An actual medical patient?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Give yourself some credit. You’ve heard all of my nursing lectures. If you’d had time to practice your knowledge on the wards, you’d be a nurse by now.”

  I gasped. “You intend me to nurse this case?”

  For years I’d been building the courage to step outside of the protective clinic, hoping Sister Wilkins would let me move to the new hospital with her.

  Matron Cavell had found me that terrible day. She’d stitched my wrists and held me while I cried. My belly swelled, and Matron Cavell tried to convince me a strong woman could transform shame to hope. She’d put a hand on my belly and repeated, “Hope.” I’d refused to believe her. Instead I’d walked to the tea shop, burned a stack of articles I’d drafted in the fireplace, then nailed boards over every window and door. I’d sealed memories and one valuable treasure inside. It was the last time I’d shown myself in public.

  I’d become part of the clinic, helping Matron Cavell forge documents and cook for the fugitive Allied soldiers, her fellow Englishmen, whom she covertly helped escape to neutral Holland. I’d hidden in the attic when German police came to arrest Matron Cavell for those treasons. Sister Wilkins had allowed me to remain living there, belly shielded from the war outside. There my daughter was born. And there my daughter stayed, for the possibility of encountering the soldiers from the shop terrified me. If they discovered my daughter—­well—­I would kill anyone who tried to touch her.

  Sister Wilkins reached the third floor. “I know why you never leave this clinic, and I don’t blame you. With us gone, little Hope will have room to roam.”

  Matron Cavell would’ve been pleased I’d named my daughter Hope. I washed dishes and laundry in the early mornings before Hope woke, and cooked or listened to nursing lectures in the classrooms during naps. I carried her out to the walled-­in garden behind the clinic every morning in good weather; otherwise we remained on the deserted attic floor, out of the way. Now that Hope was nearing her third birthday, she could use more space.

  “You’ll be safe here. Besides,” Sister Wilkins went on, “this case requires little nursing care.”

  Most of our cases were ill Belgians. Germans only brought their wounded when there were no other open hospital beds in Brussels. My one remaining underground source informed me Matron Cavell’s execution had caused international uproar. Under Allied pressure, the German governor general not only cracked down on soldiers seizing houses, he kept his men away from Institut Cavell.

  “Who is this case?” I asked.

  Wilkins pointed to a door. “A gunshot victim transported here months ago by his commander. If he overheard talk of war, he shook with tremors. They call it shell shock. He seems better now, sitting and staring most of the time.”

  “So,” I said, concealing my fear, “he is a German soldier?”

  “Yes, but the commander who brought him was arrested by the governor general. I believe they’ve forgotten about this man.”

  I turned for the attic. “No. I will return to my tea shop.”

  She grabbed my arm. “I didn’t want to tell you, but a group of Germans have staked out the tea shop.”

  Sister Wilkins had been Matron Cavell’s right hand, aware of her treasonous activity, even guiding some Allied soldiers to Holland herself. Like me, she was still in contact with hidden members of the underground network.

  “The ones who killed my mother?”

  “I only know they watch it.”

  I would recognize them. The whole thing was my fault for wearing prohibited Belgian tricolors and circulating copies of La Libre Belgique. The patriotic newssheet protested the German occupation. The governor general had banned it, and I’d done more than just circulate copies. The soldiers had followed me to the tea shop, threatening to arrest me for treason against the occupying government. One soldier in particular with a cigarette and a strong, square jaw kept eyeing the painting by Anthony van Dyck displayed behind our counter. When Papa asked him to leave, he’d blown smoke in my face. He and his comrades returned a week later. That night was a blur of fists, smoke, and a torrent of shameful tears. I didn’t see which man raped me because of the blindfold. Now I imagined my rapist in every German face.

  “Sister, don’t ask
me to care for a German.”

  Wilkins wore the neutral expression Matron Cavell had always worn; never upset or excited, always calm. “A nurse cares for a person, not a nationality.”

  “I am no nurse.”

  “You have what it takes. You embraced an infant that some women in your situation would have abandoned.”

  “My daughter’s origins are not her fault.”

  She tipped her head toward the door. “This man’s nationality was not his choice. He followed orders, and now he cannot even speak. All I’m asking you to do is ensure he doesn’t starve.”

  “If that’s all he needs, why not take him with you?”

  She hesitated. “When we move to the hospital, the Germans will demand an account of patients. This man’s commander told me to get him well enough to defend his actions. Some Germans realize this war can’t go on. They’re angry. There are riots in Berlin, mutinies in Kiel, and surrenders on the Western Front.”

  “You suspect this German is a traitor against his own country?”

  “If so, he should stay here where he won’t be discovered.”

  I fought a wave of nausea. “You want me to protect him?”

  “Germans avoid this place, so you will be protected, too.”

  From my attic window, I’d watched German patrols thin as they shipped available men to the Western Front. If I could just survive until the Germans were beaten, I might return to my shop, sell the valuable van Dyck painting that had passed through my mother’s French family for generations, and use the money to build a new life.

  Sister Wilkins handed me a stack of papers, the nursing reports for the shell shock case. “The Allies are pushing through the Western Front. Germany is about to lose. They will retaliate by seizing goods as they retreat. Brussels could become more dangerous.”

  It occurred to me that the soldier with the strong jaw might have realized he’d been studying the portrait of an English royal by van Dyck behind our shop counter. I hoped he wasn’t one of the men staking out the tea shop now. If he stole that painting, Hope and I had no future.

  I took the nursing reports reluctantly and headed toward the attic.

  Sister Wilkins’s tone betrayed a hint of relief. “You’ll stay away from the shop? You’ll care for this man?”

  I called over my shoulder. “I’ll never care a thing for him. But I’ll see to it he doesn’t starve.”

  November 8, 1918

  THE NEXT DAY I did something I’d not done in three years. I stepped out of the clinic’s front door. Loading baskets and barrels onto a stream of carts and wagons, and supporting patients as they limped into ambulances, I helped Sister Wilkins and other nurses empty the clinic. “There are rations in the larder,” Wilkins said as she embraced me. “Remember your promises.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that I’d made no promises, simply waved as they departed. Then I hurried back inside.

  Hope looked up from her bench by the front window.

  “Come down to the kitchen,” I said, gesturing to her. “I’ll show you how to make turnip soup.”

  She closed her little hand around one of my fingers, like a tiny grip on my heart. “Tou-­nips?” she asked, blue eyes wide.

  I nodded. “If you’re good, we’ll fry an apple and sprinkle it with cinnamon.”

  “Cin-­on-­am-­an?”

  I laughed, scooping her up and carrying her down the basement steps to the kitchen. We made a pleasant mess cooking our meager feast, and I put her to bed with a smudge of rye flour still on the tip of her nose.

  After Hope fell asleep, I returned to the kitchen. I lined a tray with a white napkin and ladled the last of our soup into a bowl. I added half an apple and a flagon of water, then carried the tray upstairs. Outside the soldier’s door, I paused.

  His nursing reports had revealed little. Lars Ludwig’s episodes of rocking and trembling had abated in his months at the clinic. He’d arrived with a healing gunshot wound to the right shoulder that no longer required dressing changes. He ate breakfast and supper. He used the chamber pot regularly. Nurses walked him to the water closet at the end of the hall twice weekly; there he bathed himself. Otherwise he sat by the window or slept. He never left a mess. He never uttered a word.

  Now he was in my care and, not only did I not care about his well-­being, I hated him. I pushed open the door. Sitting by the window with his back to me, he didn’t stir. When I set the tray on the table beside him, he didn’t budge. I moved to jot the contents of his supper on the report hanging from the bedstead, but it contained no papers. So I grabbed the chamber pot. I’d emptied plenty in my years at the clinic, a task made simpler by modern plumbing at the end of the hall. When I returned with the pot clean and sparkling, he still hadn’t moved. “I wish all Germans were so little trouble as you.”

  He said nothing, and I regretted my harsh tone. I left, pulling the door closed behind me.

  I sped downstairs and out to the back garden as the moon rose above the roofline. Beyond the far wall, Marie waited for me. I stepped upon a stack of bricks and reached across, handing her the other half of the apple I’d served to my German. “Is it true German sailors mutinied in Kiel?”

  Marie took a bite of the precious apple, so rare in these times of scarcity and confiscation. “Better,” she said with her mouth full. “Sailors from Kiel traveled throughout Germany spreading outright revolution.” Marie had assisted Matron Cavell by sharing updates she received from her son, a lawyer working for our Belgian King Albert’s advisors beyond the Western Front. She now shared information with me, and I shared Red Cross food rations. “They’re taking over military and civil offices, forcing aristocratic leaders of German states to abdicate. Amélie, it’s spreading all the way to Munich!”

  My breath caught. “The Kaiser will be forced to abdicate! The war will be over.”

  “I shudder at the thought of all those German companies marching through Brussels again, this time full of the bitterness of defeat. Lock yourself in.”

  Hope and I could hide in the attic with rations for days. If I placed rations in my German’s room, he could make out for himself.

  It was as if thinking of him made me sense him. I glanced at his window. A face quickly backed into shadow. His window was open!

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I whispered to Marie. I hastened inside, vowing to be more careful during our next conversation. My German might be silent, but he apparently had no trouble listening.

  November 9, 1918

  THE NEXT MORNING Hope watched me stoke coals in the range then boil oats for our breakfast. I gave her my ration of ham. As I kneaded rye dough into boules and put them in bannetons to rise, she wrapped herself in an apron and banged pots with a spoon. Watching her made me wish for the old days when sugar and eggs and white flour were available. I longed to grill up a waffle and smother it in chocolate and serve it to her with a glass of fresh milk.

  Soon.

  I’d tossed and turned all night wondering about the end of the war. Would the Germans take us as prisoners as they retreated from the Western Front? Or would they merely take everything we had left? I’d made the decision to prepare. Regardless of Sister Wilkins’s warnings, I would make a trip to the tea shop.

  Out in the garden, I gave Hope her favorite basket of blocks to sort and stack while I took my German his breakfast.

  He’d made his bed. He sat in his chair wearing the same long nightshirt. I placed a tray of oats and ham on the table and picked up the remnants of his supper, empty flagon and bowl rattling against the tray. Then I noticed a pair of boots between his bed and the window. Not the grubby marching boots of an average soldier; these shone as if just polished. I flung open his cabinet. A pair of standard German gray trousers hung from a peg, laundered but threadbare. The matching jacket had permanent bloodstains around bullet holes in one shoulder. No other boots.
The shiny ones must be his.

  I turned to find him watching me. I wanted to upbraid him for eavesdropping the night before. But there was no malice in his stare. His features had a softness that made him look almost kind. I reminded myself to avoid a harsh tone. What would Sister Wilkins say? “Do you need anything?”

  He stared without answering. There was no confusion, no trace of shell shock as he studied me. I knew in my bones he had regained his ability to speak.

  Why wouldn’t he?

  I pulled a chunk of lye soap from my pocket and a linen towel from the waistband of my apron and set both on the bed. “Today is bath day, but you likely know that, don’t you?” Still no response. “You’re fully recovered, aren’t you?” I ignored his chamber pot and walked out saying, “I’ll bring supper at the usual time.” I closed the door too firmly.

  HOPE TOOK HER morning nap, and I measured rations. I left enough in the larder for one person for a week. I sealed rye flour in tins, wrapped root vegetables in baskets, and gathered apples and pears in a sack and hauled them upstairs.

  My attic level extended the length of the townhouse, but it was inhabitable only in the middle, where the roof peaked. The wall with the stairway overlooked the alley with a little window. The opposite wall housed an armoire and the bed I shared with Hope. Matron Cavell had covered the walls and ceiling in mismatched scrap panels, not only for insulation, but to distract from one panel, on the other side of the armoire.

  I pushed it. The secret door opened with a gentle creak. A hidden attic extended over the top floors of the clinic’s other three townhouses. I ducked to enter.

  During all those unannounced German inspections leading to Matron Cavell’s arrest, they’d disregarded my attic level after they saw the sparse furnishings. Tearing downstairs through the other interconnected townhouses of the clinic, they’d never thought to look for more attics. Matron Cavell had hidden Allied soldiers here, a hundred at a time. Her hoard of counterfeit documents was still concealed under the floorboards. Soon I would hide here with Hope.