Whisper on the Wind Read Online Free Page A

Where were the whitewashed brick homes and shops that had once lined the cobblestone street, the flowers that hung from each window, the gardens gracing every yard? Not a blade of color could be found, as if a massive paintbrush had drawn a swath of gray over the town. Entire blocks were burned to the ground; piles of brick and rubble stood crumbling where she’d once shopped and dined. She could tell by Edward’s face that he’d grown used to the devastation, so she hid her horror.
    She knew the university was burned, where both her father and brother had attended—and Edward, too, at only sixteen. Perhaps it had been destroyed on the same day Edward’s hotel had burned, since it wasn’t far. American headlines told about the university and its beloved library burning, but Gourard had told her about the hotel.
    And St. Peter’s, gone as well. How could they? But she knew that no matter how many of His churches the Germans burned to the ground, God wouldn’t abandon Belgium, not when she needed Him most. Edward must be made to see that . . . somehow.
    A smaller chapel still stood, one she’d never visited before. Edward stared at it and she knew that was their destination. At the top of the wide cement steps, open doors beckoned.
    Soldiers lingered on a nearby corner, smoking and laughing despite the dinner hour.
    “We’ll round the block and come up behind the church.” Edward’s hand cupped her elbow so that even if she wanted to pause, she couldn’t.
    They cut through the alley between two shops still intact but abandoned: one a grocer with a torn awning flapping on a breeze and the other with a printer’s logo in the window. Edward led the way to a back entrance of the modest, single-story chapel. Inside, colored light filtered through stained glass. A few people knelt in silent prayer at the altar, candles at each side lit as always in such chapels but perhaps more numerous than before the outbreak of war.
    Isa had barely more than a glimpse of the altar as they passed through a hallway and down a narrow stairway leading to a tiled floor below. Downstairs they found several doors, all made of wood that, over the years, had absorbed the smell of incense. Edward went to one and tapped lightly.
    A moment later a priest stood in the threshold. Bright dust flecks danced around the outline of his head like a halo, but until he held wide the door, Isa could see only the outline of a man wearing a cassock.
    “Edward!” The priest was much older and barely taller than Isa, with a robust smile and the fair complexion of a Fleming, his sparse hair light and gray. “Come in; come in.”
    The private chamber offered nothing more than a simple pine desk, a narrow chair before it and a crucifix above two more equally uninviting chairs opposite the desk.
    “And whom do we have here? I’ve not seen your face before, young lady.”
    “This is Isa Lassone, Father Liquori,” Edward announced. “I’ll be taking her to Brussels, but we have something to leave with you before we finish our trip.”
    “Oh? Edward?” He sounded cautious, but his smile never wavered despite his tone of voice. “Are you sure?”
    Edward patted the cleric’s shoulder and nodded his assurance. “I’ve known Isa since she was seven, Father. She’s half-American by blood, but pure Belgian by choice.”
    “Ah.” He looked her over again, this time with a renewed twinkle in his eye. “You and Edward, you are friends?”
    Isa smiled. “Yes, very good friends.”
    Edward began opening his bulky shirt. “My mother is a servant of her parents—or used to be—”
    “Edward! Your mother is no servant.”
    “Well, she was practically your nanny, wasn’t she? That’s a servant.”
    “My father is Belgian but my mother is American. My parents have always lived a rather . . . busy . . . lifestyle, but when they first brought me here, they stayed in Edward’s hotel, until arrangements were made for us to move into a home in