“They’re Bertie’s,” Benedict said dryly. “The Belgian government has awarded him the Order of Leopold in gratitude for the CRB. Look.” He opened a velvet box to reveal a medal in the shape of a Maltese cross with the Belgian lion at the center. It was attached to a ribbon made of the same purple silk that adorned the vase of flowers.
Bertie stood off to the side, looking bashful and embarrassed at the award.
“Congratulations!” Delia enthused. “When did you find out?”
“When the flowers arrived. Although my name is on the medal, in truth it belongs to the hundreds of volunteers who make the CRB possible. Delia, please take the flowers to your room. You earned them.”
She stood a little straighter as she gazed at the spectacular bouquet. Serving on the CRB had been the most rewarding experience of her life, but the honor truly belonged to Bertie alone. He was the one who had envisioned the plan and who had the leadership skills and charisma to get it up and running.
“I’ll take the flowers, but only because they would require a separate train ticket if you tried to take them with you tomorrow,” she teased.
“This calls for a celebration,” Inga said, walking to the balcony to fling the French doors open. “This is the last evening the four of us will be together. We must make a toast.”
Bertie called downstairs for a bottle of champagne and a platterof cheese. The balcony overlooked the square, and mandolin music floated up from the bistro across the street. So perfect was the summer evening that it didn’t seem possible that there was a war being fought not far away.
“Rumor has it the French plan on awarding Bertie the Legion of Honour,” Benedict said once they were seated on the balcony. “Soon he will have collected so many awards, he will need a separate trunk for them all.”
“That’s because everybody loves you,” Inga said to Bertie. “Even President Wilson is smart enough to put you in his cabinet.”
“Will you ever go back to mining?” Benedict asked. “I should think you’ll need to replenish your bank account after all these years of letting the CRB drain your wallet.”
Bertie’s babyish face turned wistful as he gazed at the sunset. “I became a rich man from working in gold and silver mines, but nothing has given me greater satisfaction than tackling humanitarian issues. For now, I’ll do what I can to help President Wilson. After that, well, I don’t think I can return to mining. The war has changed me. Perhaps I’ll throw my hat into the political arena and see what comes of it.”
Benedict frowned. “You’ll need a name with more gravitas thanBertieif you want to run for elected office. What is your given name?”
“Herbert,” he replied.
It didn’t sound that much more impressive than Bertie, but Benedict seemed thoughtful as he mulled over the name. “Herbert Hoover,” he said slowly. “That has a ring to it. Yes, I could vote for a man named Herbert Hoover.”
Delia stepped forward to kiss Bertie on the cheek. “You’ll always be Bertie to me,” she said. “But I expect you will do well in the political arena.”
36
Finn thought he was dreaming when it was announced that all the prisoners in solitary confinement would be granted a daily hour in the exercise yard. There were twelve men in solitary, all of them wraith-thin as they emerged from their cells, staring at one another in hopeful bewilderment, unable to believe this unexpected gift. For the first time, he saw Father Gerhardt face-to-face. The old man was short, blocky, and had a wizened face that was wreathed in a thousand wrinkles when he smiled.
Is this your doing, Dee?Finn silently wondered as he walked through the corridors. It had been a week since her visit, and he doubted this was a coincidence.
The exercise yard was about half an acre of hard-packed dirt with a few patches of scrabbly grass. The cinder-block walls were topped with barbed wire, but none of them could blot out the pale blue sky with its wispy cirrus clouds. It was the most beautiful sky Finn had ever seen. He nearly wept at the sight.
Sweet Jesus,thank you for this blessing. To see the sky again ... thank you.
An instant bond formed among his twelve fellow prisoners despite the language barriers. Finn was the only native Englishspeaker. The others spoke French, Dutch, Flemish, and German. Finn knew enough French to converse with most of them.
The hour spent in the sunlight had been overwhelming, filling him with unexpected joy. When Finn returned to his cell, he lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling and counting down the minutes until the next day when he could go outside again.
That was when the tremblies hit him again. It had been months since one of these wild surges in emotion struck him. It started in his belly, then moved up to his shoulders and down to his fingertips. The weepiness hit him hard, with waves of grief alternating with laughter over the beauty of the cirrus clouds he saw when out in the prison yard.
That night he spoke about it with Father Gerhardt through the ventilation pipe. “This isn’t the first time it has happened to me,” he confided. “When I returned to America, the waves of emotion hit me when I thought about my time in Belgium. It’s humiliating.”
Father Gerhardt was typically astute. “What kind of man would you be if you could remember such calamities and remain impassive? Your emotion shows that you have a heart and a soul.”
“It proves I’m turning into a weakling,” he replied.
Naturally, Father Gerhardt was ready with a denial. “It isn’t a sign of weakness, but one that shows you have a generous heart. Your emotions are proof that your soul remains tender amidst the savagery of war, and that is a gift.”
Finn snorted. “I’ve been trained to be a fighter, someone who stands up for others. Now I get weepy at the sight of some pretty clouds. Sorry, Father, but that’s not who I am.”
Laughter drifted through the pipe. “And yet...” The old man’s voice trailed off.
