in anymore.
She plucked at the multicolored yarn on the afghan she’d snuggled into on the brown leather couch. Grammy meant well. She was a woman who’d always been with the love of her life, so Melinda understood the basis for Grammy’s opinions.
But Grammy didn’t understand that the situation today wasn’t the same as during World War II. Nick had a choice—whether or not to serve. Whether or not to break Melinda’s heart.
Esmée’s Journal
May 25, 1940
How can this be happening? How can men of intelligence bring us to our knees again? Haven’t we suffered enough?
I’ve spent my entire academic life studying the Great War and how it destroyed our beloved Belgium. My family’s strength, faith and resourceful nature are the only reasons I am able to write this entry today.
A scant generation later we’ve begun another ugly battle.
Ugly it is. The Germans have no room for anyone except themselves. They tolerate us, they use us. Over the past three weeks I’ve seen everything I’ve ever read about in my literature studies—and more.
Bloodthirsty warplanes bombed our capital, and smaller, tactical aircraft strafed my village’s cow pastures. Douglas DuPont, who owns the fields behind our street, was shot dead while he tended to a birthing cow. His widow and five children are heartbroken and see no justification for his death.
Only Nazi barbarism.
My parents are quite vocal about what we’re experiencing. They warn my sister and me of many years of sacrifice to come. Surely this won’t last as long as the Great War. The Allies are on the right side of morality, of justice.
I will keep this record, so the world will know what happened. I will write in English—for practice and security.
Selfishly I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my studies. I graduate in three weeks and plan to attend university this September.
The current situation may dictate otherwise. The simple act of taking the train into Brussels each day may well be impossible.
Does this mean life as I know it is extinguished?
July 15, 1940
Any hope of escape, of fleeing, is over now. I desperately wanted to run to the French border but Mother forbade it. Besides, with Elodie, who will take care of them? Elodie still can’t walk without a lot of help, even using her cane. The polio could have been worse. Maman says I could have contracted it as well. But none of us did.
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