They had their photo.
29
After waiting three interminable days, Baron Werner von Eschenbach blew into Rotterdam with the force of a cheerful spring storm. The middle-aged man retained a trim physique, apparently from a life of sailing and playing polo. A few strands of silver in his chestnut hair were the only sign of his age. According to Inga, the baron’s charm had been honed to perfection from flirting with ladies all across Europe, a skill he was determined to practice with their surly landlady in the hope of cajoling her into opening her garden to them.
“Come, Mrs. Holzhauer,” the baron said to the thick-necked landlady, “your garden is a treasure that should be shared, especially in times like these. And look! You have five seats at your garden table, and there are five of us. Coincidence, yes?”
The landlady’s eyes hardened. “No, sir. I once opened the garden to a visiting group of Italian diplomats, and by the end of the day, they’d trampled my daffodils.”
Delia shifted impatiently. They needed to start their long-delayed discussions and could simply go across the street to a café rather than waste time haggling with Mrs. Holzhauer. Their entire group was crowded into the downstairs hallway, eager to getstarted. Who cared that the garden was so beautiful it could compete with Eden? Even the eternally good-natured Bertie Hoover was growing impatient with Baron von Eschenbach’s determination to gather together in the walled garden instead of at a café.
“You need not fear the health of your daffodils,” the baron told the landlady. “The daffodil is nature’s way of smiling, and we all appreciate its delicate beauty. Mrs. Holzhauer, you are to be commended for the glory of this garden, and I, along with my fellow boarders, would like to use this blessed oasis to work toward bringing peace to the world.”
The baron’s lavish praise finally worked, but Mrs. Holzhauer still looked stern as she unlocked the door to her backyard garden and permitted them inside.
“Not one bloom is to be plucked,” she warned, and Baron von Eschenbach bowed to kiss the back of the landlady’s hand.
“Didn’t I tell you he was good at negotiating?” Inga whispered to Delia, and a surge of optimism bloomed inside Delia’s chest. She hurried forward to swipe a few cherry blossom petals from the seats, their faint, powdery scent lingering in the air.
The barrage of charm from Baron von Eschenbach continued when he brought out a bottle of champagne, a wedge of Gouda cheese, and a box of Swiss chocolates. “Compliments of the black market,” he teased as he removed the wire cage from the top of the champagne bottle. Inga sliced the cheese while Bertie popped a square of dark chocolate into his mouth.
The baron’s clipped British accent made it hard to believe he was German as he gestured for them to sit. “My friends, we have a challenging task ahead of us,” he said while pouring champagne into the tumblers provided by the landlady. “But first, a toast. The friendship between us is genuine despite the differences between our nations. I pray to Almighty God that once peace has been found, we can reach across man-made borders and keep our friendships alive.”
“Hear, hear,” Bertie said, and all stood to clink their glasses.Delia’s nose wrinkled at the bite of tart champagne, yet everything else about their garden sanctuary was lovely. Bees droned as they whizzed among the blooms, and the sun was warm on her shoulders. A light breeze blew through the garden, causing more cherry petals to float to the ground. The beauty that surrounded them was a reminder of God’s bounty, and yet, only a few miles outside of the neutral nation, the war cast a shadow of hunger, fear, and death.
“Don’t expect your flattery to work so easily on General Ryckman,” Benedict said. “Negotiating with Ryckman is a zero-sum game, and he views any concession as a sign of weakness. He will want something in return for allowing CRB shipments into Rotterdam, and we don’t have the authority to give him anything.”
“We can give him credit as a humanitarian,” Bertie said. “Condemnation against Germany is gathering near universal momentum, and that will be exacerbated if he insists on blocking much-needed food and supplies from getting into Belgium.”
“The problem is that Ryckman doesn’t care,” Benedict stressed. “Now that the revolution has knocked Russia out of the war, he has renewed hope that Germany can win.”
“But Kaiser Wilhelm cares,” Bertie said. “His concern is his reputation after the war is over—thatis what he cares about. His cousin is the king of England. He doesn’t want to be known as a leader who took bread out of the mouths of children.”
“Then why can’t we appeal directly to the kaiser?” Delia asked.
An abrupt silence descended among those gathered around the table. Given the amused expression on the men’s faces, apparently she had said something stupid or naive, but perhaps her ignorance of diplomatic matters could be an advantage. Nine million starving people was worth their charting new territory to find solutions.
“Kaiser Wilhelm would consider such things beneath him,” Benedict finally answered. “General Ryckman is the man overseeing occupied Belgium, and our request must begin and end with the general.”
Baron von Eschenbach helped himself to another slice of cheese. “And the general ought to be in a good mood now that he has finally captured that American pilot.”
The bottom dropped out of Delia’s stomach, and she stared at the baron. “W-what American pilot?”
“That fellow who has been making a name for himself all over the United States,” the baron said. “There are leaflets with the poor chap’s photo all over Germany. He looks awful.” He paused, a sudden note of concern on his face. “I’m sorry ... have I said something amiss?”
“We are well acquainted with the American pilot of whom you speak,” Bertie said.
Delia clenched the arms of her chair, but she must not panic. “What do you mean by ‘he looks awful’?”
The churning in her stomach grew worse as the baron described the propaganda pamphlet that was circulating throughout Germany. It boasted how General Ryckman had captured and imprisoned the pilot who escaped last year, then recklessly entered Belgium to sabotage German lines of supplies. The supposedly heroic American had collapsed quickly once he’d been captured.
Delia turned her face away as the baron spoke but forced herself to keep listening to the excruciating details published in the pamphlet. The part about sabotage was clearly a lie to disguise Finn’s true objective in trying to win Mathilde’s freedom.
She wanted to smash something, flip the table over, yell at the sky. Instead, she ignored her anger and frustration and turned her gaze to Bertie. “Wehaveto do something to save Finn,” she insisted on a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry, Delia, but he’s beyond our help,” Bertie replied, not unkindly but the words still scorched. “Our mission in coming to Europe is to secure relief supplies for Belgium by seeing that the port is reopened. We can do nothing that will endanger or delay that objective.”
Bertie was right, of course. Her mind told her that their missionwas to keep relief supplies flowing into Belgium, but inside, her heart was breaking.
