An Owl's Whisper (48 page)

Jess shifted the professor’s coat from arm to arm. “You’re free to ask yourself any questions you like, but—”

“Sheriff, since it was you who brought up the subject of guilt, I trust for the grace of one more moment. Let me illustrate with a UFA operations policy called veiling. It kept the girls from seeing the practical outcomes of their work, for fear their natural soft-heartedness might make them useless if their naivety was lost. For instance, publicity stated that Jews in the occupied lands be concentrated in special districts—for the common good. Plans to exterminate them were explicitly obscured. A 1943 dispatch to the UFA handlers reinforced the importance of maintaining the veil. It indicated that the reliability of one of HM’s girls became suspect after her report of Jews being hidden lead ultimately to the execution of a nun involved in the hiding.” Wallener scowled. “Sheriff, evil men made this program vile—not the children.”

Tracing the line of his mouth with his thumb tip, Jess silently eyed Wallener.

Wallener sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face. His look was a plea for understanding. “Questions of guilt and innocence! Let me assure you, I’ve wrestled them. In the end, I keep confronting the central fact:
These were children
. Cleverly manipulated children. I see little Crickette and the others who were part of
UFA
as puppets. Even victims. How can one assign them guilt? Does this make sense in you, sheriff?”

Calling Crickette a victim did make sense to Jess. Getting sick, and then shot—she was about as much a victim as can be. He tugged the end of his moustache. “As a lawman, I try to leave questions of guilt up to juries and judges. But hell, as a man, I reckon you’ve got it pretty near right. Sorry about flyin’ off the handle a minute ago. It’s just that there’s a problem with you wantin’ to talk to Crickette.”

Wallener laughed. “I like this term,
flying off of the handle
. In America, the speaking is picturesque.” He turned serious. “As to my visit, I wish only to interview Mrs. Conroy. Please don’t let my request
konstern
you, as her identity is safe with me. I—”

Jess thrust his palms out. “Wallener, you’ve come too late.” He looked at the floor. “Nobody’s talkin’ to Mrs. Conroy. She passed away earlier this month.”

Wallener’s head cocked to the side. “Passed away? It means departed?”

“It means
died
.
She is dead.
I believe she was murdered.”

Wallener sank back into his chair. “Murdered? Can it be?” He turned away slowly, then spun back. “Tell me, do you know who is her killer?”

Jess glanced down at his boots. “Don’t know nothin’ for sure.”

“Then my trek to your door may be timely. Dark pasts and death can be close cousins.” Wallener looked up to the ceiling. “I feel Mr. Knife’s ghost climbing from his grave.”

Jess shook his head. “’Fraid not. One of ’em I got my eye on an old time local. Harry’s a lot of no-good, but Nazi spy ain’t part of it. Naw, if he’s involved, what you claim Crickette did in the war and her gettin’ buckshot here are two separate things. Look, far as you’ve come, I’d like to be able to tell you about Crickette’s life back in the old country, but I can’t. Now Eva—” Jess caught himself before saying more.

“Eva? Excuse me, who might Eva be, sheriff?”

“Oh, she grew up in Belgium and knew Crickette over there before they both came here as war brides. But I don’t know—”

“Ah, so? And Eva was a friend of Mrs. Conroy, also from Liege?”

“Eva Chandler’s her name. My nephew’s wife. No, I think Eva was from a small town; went to some convent school there. She’s a good gal, professor. I hate—”

“Certainly I would be grateful to speak with Mrs. Chandler. Since I am traveled so far here, as you say. I would ask only a few questions about her friend.”

After seeing Crickette’s journal the day before, Jess was surprised to feel vaguely positive about Eva talking to Wallener. As if something good could come of it. “I reckon I can ask.”

Wallener nodded deeply. “Thank you, sheriff. And out of consideration for Mrs. Conroy’s family, please don’t mention
UFA
or any other details of my inquiry.”

An Owl Whispers

Jess got the professor booked in at the hotel, then telephoned Eva. “Say, a foreigner named Wallener showed up, wantin’ to interview Crickette about emigratin’ as a war bride. University professor from Heidelberg. That’s in Germany. Told him about Crickette. Then I mentioned that you might know something could help. Willing to see the feller? S’up to you.”

After a silent moment, Eva said, “Yes, I suppose I can.”

“You’ll enjoy it. This Wallener’s a pretty charmin’ rascal.”

At the sheriff’s office the next morning, Jess introduced Eva to Wallener. She acknowledged the gentleness of this visitor’s handshake with her warm smile.

Putting on his coat, Jess said, “If you two are squared away, think I’ll duck over to Sudsy’s for a cup of joe. Take your time.” He grabbed his hat and was out the door.

Wallener seemed to fill the room—this genial giant in his huge gray suit. He sported an easy smile and puffed on a black-smudged meerschaum pipe. The sweet smoke and the smile made the office seem homey. He bowed and presented his card. “Mrs. Chandler, please accept my condolences on the tragic loss of your friend. Thank you for seeing me.”

“I hope to help, but I didn’t know Crickette all that well before we left Belgium.”

“Anything you know might be useful, and be assured, what you say I hold in confidence.”

Eva nodded.

Wallener smiled. “Before we turn to my interests, I would be pleased to have your story.”

“There is little to say, Professor Wallener. When my parents died—” Eva sat up and straightened her shoulders. “—when I lost them, my uncle Henri brought me to the French-speaking side of Belgium. Because he traveled often, he enrolled me to a convent school not far from his home in Liege. The school closed during the occupation, so I went to help an elderly couple on their small farm in exchange for room and board. Toward the end of the war I met Stanley. We married and came here to his home to live. Our house is not far from the town. Now I have two little girls, Catherine and Françie, and a quiet life. I’m content.”

Wallener walked behind Eva and put his fingertips on the back of her chair. “Orphaned and then the war. After such a childhood you deserve every good thing you have now.”

“I said lost, not orphaned. My father died. With the depression, Mother couldn’t keep me.”

“Pardon me.” Wallener returned to his chair. “And your school, what was its name?”

“St. Sébastien. It was a boarding school run by nuns, a quiet place on the Meuse River.”

“Ah? I know the Meuse valley. And I’ve heard of the St. Sébastien school. It neighbors Lefebvre, if I recall correctly.”

“St. Sébastien is long closed now.”

“Lefebvre. A picturesque town! Famous for its old Roman bridge, I believe.”

“Yes, so it is.”

“And for a wartime atrocity, as I recall. A nun hanged for harboring Jewish children. Wasn’t that it?”

Eva looked down at her hands.

Wallener continued, “Still, a charming village. An important crossroads. I’ve trekked to the old convent school. Did you know that after the war, the citizens of Lefebvre refurbished it? At the heroic nun’s gravesite they placed a granite marker proclaiming her
Eternal Martyr of Lefebvre
. A rendering of the town square’s statue of a she-fox protecting her pups is etched on the stone. Truly moving. Now the Belgian government has designated the grave, the buildings, and lands of St. Sébastien a national memorial to resistance against foreign occupation.”

“Mother Catherine.” Eva whispered it. A broken heart’s whisper.

“Excuse me?” said Wallener.

“The nun, the heroic nun—her name was Mother Catherine.”

Wallener smiled but his eyes were forlorn. He said softly, “So you knew her?”

Eva nodded.

Wallener put a fingertip to his lip. “My dear, I came here to become informed about Mrs. Conroy, before her emigration. About her life as Crickette Gigault in Belgium.”

“Sheriff Jess said you wished to know about Crickette as a war bride. I know little of her life before that. Just that she lived near Liege. I met her through my uncle. Perhaps she worked for him. He kept a large home in Liege and ran a successful business of some sort. He employed many people, especially during the occupation when jobs were difficult.” Eva’s look hardened. “Uncle Henri used to brag that so many people worked for him, he didn’t have to blow his own nose…. He introduced Crickette to me in the autumn of 1944. About when she met her husband, Max. He was a GI, like my Stanley. That’s all I know. Maybe Max could tell you more.”

“Did Mrs. Conroy keep a notebook in those days? Maybe make cryptic notes?”

Eva looked surprised. “Why would she? I wouldn’t know if she did.”

“What about names? Did she ever call herself Hille? Or Miss Canary?”

“No, never.” Eva looked angry. “Her name was Crickette. Only Crickette.”

“May I inquire about her employer, your Uncle Henri? What was his last name?”

“It was Messiaen, just as my maiden name. And I said Crickette
might
have worked for him. I don’t recall one way or the other.”

“Hmm. Yes,
might
. Interesting that he kept some wealth and influence even under the occupation. I am curious, did he go by his initials, HM, or ever use a nickname…
Mr. Knife
?”

For a moment Eva froze. She looked hard at Wallener. “His name was Henri Messiaen.”

“Mrs. Chandler, perhaps you knew a girl at your school called Franka? Does Franka Kirschlager strike a chord?” Wallener’s gaze was piercing. “Perhaps someone nicknamed Owl?”

Eva’s expression iced-over. For a moment she and Wallener stared at each other like poker players over a fifty-dollar pot. Then Eva said, “You seem to know so much already. I don’t see what more can I add.” She pulled her blue woolen mittens on. “I came to tell you what little I know about Crickette as a war bride, and I’ve done that.”

The only sound in the room was the breath passing through Wallener’s ample nose. He waited, as if he knew there was more.

“So if there’s nothing else—” Eva rose. “—I really should return to my girls now.”

With a softness and a gentleness that was remarkable both for a man of his size and for the tension filling the room, Wallener said, “My dear, would you allow me just a few more moments? I’ve come so far.” His expression made it a plea. “We both have, haven’t we?”

Eva eyes filled with tears and her shoulders sagged. “I suppose there’s no longer a reason to hide…now.” She removed her mittens and looked at the floor.

Wallener, silent and still as a statue, gazed at Eva.

Finally, she looked up. “I can’t remember my mother’s face the day she dropped me off at the huge gray building off the Pariser Platz in Berlin. She bought me a bag of hard candy on the way from the train station and signed me in at the reception desk and then she turned and left.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

Wallener moved his chair close and took Eva’s hands in his. His eyes glistened, too.

“At first there were many girls. Crickette—” Eva dabbed her eye. “—yes, Hille was her name. She was one of us. We spent the first months being immersed, indoctrinated, I suppose, into the nation’s way of thinking. Eventually, nine of us remained. Hille, a girl named Lise, and I were marked for Belgium. For a year we studied with Belgian nationals—language, culture, and so on. The man I called Uncle Henri taught us the techniques of information gathering.”

“HM.” Wallener shook his head sadly. “And, Eva, you arrived in Belgium when?”

“Henri took me to St. Sébastien in 1937. They were interested in Lefebvre for its strategic location. They’d done their homework.” Eva sighed. “I loved life at the school. The other girls. I had a little dog…I had a mother again. Mother Catherine. I loved them all and I thought I was taking them to a better life. I wanted so much to tell them
don’t worry
.” She looked at Wallener. “But of course I couldn’t say anything. Then, with the occupation, everything started to go wrong. To rot. Before my eyes.” Eva looked down again.

“It must have been hard,” Wallener said.

“Yes.” She looked at him. “No. What is hard is standing up for what you know is right. Dying for it.”

“According to the files, a girl called Owl did stand up. Did cause Henri some headaches.”

“A girl called Owl sent a saint,” Eva whispered, “her own mother, to the gallows.”

“The reports I’ve read indicate it wasn’t as simple as that.” Wallener took out a large, white handkerchief and blew his nose. “You’re brave and generous to speak so honestly.”

“You and I knew a world of lies. Because we share that bond, deceiving you is gauche. But until recently I didn’t have the courage to be honest. After so long living a lie, I told my husband, Stanley, about everything. Doing that made me whole. Set me free.”