The sluggishness of the clerk vanished, and he stood a little straighter. “Can you pull some strings to get my son additional rations? He really needs them.”
Everyone wanted additional rations, and she drew on her well-rehearsedscript to deny him, wondering how long it would take for word to spread and her anonymity to be destroyed. “I’m sorry, but I am unable to make concessions for—”
Mr. Lemaire interrupted her. “My son is a cook at the Saint-Gilles Prison,” he said, and Delia’s breath caught at the revelation. The clerk continued. “Joseph says the prisoners hardly get anything except turnips. Most of the prisoners are Belgians, so shouldn’t they be entitled to rations? They have never gotten so much as a slice of bread from the CRB.”
This was what Bertie warned her about. The rationing system had been in place for three years, and if they started making exceptions, the fragile system would start breaking down fast.
But did Bertie know about the POWs? Most of the people incarcerated in Saint-Gilles weren’t criminals. They were ordinary men and women who had been swept up in a war they hadn’t asked for. If it was humanly possible, she needed to get additional rations into the prison. She was ashamed she hadn’t thought of it before.
“I’ll wire to the man in charge of rations to ask,” she told the clerk. “Where is the nearest operational telegraph?”
This message would go straight to Bertie in Washington, not the administrators in New York. Mr. Lemaire guided her outside to point her to the nearest operational telegraph station, which was almost a mile away.
“I’ll be back tonight with an answer,” she vowed.
Six hours later, a telegram from Bertie arrived at her room, and it wasn’t good news.
We can allow no deviations from established allotments.
With regret, Bertie
She should have expected it, but as she trudged up to the roof that night, the sight of the prison’s medieval stone towers lookedespecially harsh. Somewhere in that granite monstrosity, Finn languished—alone, hungry, and ill.
Later that evening, she walked back to the post office to meet Joseph, the telegrapher who’d been conscripted into being a cook at the prison. She couldn’t secure more rations for the prisoners, but perhaps she could still do something for Finn.
The neighborhood was almost vacant as she walked the familiar cobblestone street toward the post office, a letter to Finn clutched in her hand. The cafés lacked food to stay open into the night, the theaters had been closed for years, and even the Germans had to return to their quarters by sundown. What a contrast to New York back home, the city that never slept.
Though the post office was closed, a lantern burned inside. A young man with a swath of dark hair hanging across his forehead was busy at the telegraph machine. He was alone, probably catching up on the day’s work after returning from the prison.
She tapped on the windowpane, and he looked up, revealing a startlingly handsome face. He had a finely chiseled jaw and gentle eyes, but when he came around the counter to unlock the door, she saw a dreadfully twisted leg that caused a severe hitch in his gait.
“Are you Joseph?” she asked when he opened the door.
He nodded and motioned for her to step inside, speaking a torrent of phrases she couldn’t understand. He knocked on the pipe at the back of the post office. “Vite,vite,Papa. L’Américaine est là.”
Shuffling sounds could be heard from above, and within a minute the postal clerk came downstairs. It was painful to see the hope in both men’s eyes, knowing that she had to disappoint them. Since the son didn’t speak English, she spoke directly to Mr. Lemaire.
“I’m sorry. It won’t be possible to supply the prison with additional rations.”
Both men seemed resigned to her answer, and they thanked her for the effort. Now it was her turn to ask a favor.
“A man I care about is imprisoned in Saint-Gilles,” she began, speaking directly to Joseph. If he could see the pain in her eyes,perhaps he’d be willing to help. She held the letter aloft and tried to block the quivering from her voice. “His name is Finn Delaney. Would it be possible for you to slip a letter to him?”
Joseph turned to his father for translation. She heard Finn’s name among the foreign words, and the two men exchanged several sentences before the elder man turned to her with regret in his expression.
“He can’t do it,” Mr. Lemaire said. “Any Belgian worker caught trying to communicate with a prisoner risks getting locked up too. Joseph has heard of your pilot. He’s the only American in the prison. The Germans really hate him.”
It was a double blow, and she reached for the counter to steady herself. Was Finn so badly treated that even the cooks had heard about it?
Mr. Lemaire noticed her distress and guided her to a bench. Both men dragged chairs over to sit with her. Joseph leaned forward, speaking in French, which Mr. Lemaire translated.
“Joseph says that all the prisoners in the basement cells are suffering. While the prisoners upstairs get cabbage and potatoes, the men in solitary confinement get only turnips. Their legs and feet are swollen, and it is hard for them to stand.”
She dropped her head into her hands, covering her face. It had been a month since she last saw Finn, and yes, he seemed unsteady on his feet even then. What ghastly disease was afflicting him?
Sniveling wouldn’t do Finn any good. She needed more information, and to think of a way to fix this. She dropped her hands and gathered her resolve and asked, “What are the symptoms of the men in solitary confinement? Please tell me everything you know.”
Though translation, Delia learned that the men in the lower cells were the most watched, for they were considered spies and traitors. They got the worst food and had only recently been allowed a brief period of daily exercise in the prison yard—a concession Delia had fought hard for them to receive. Joseph had seenthe prisoners being led into the yard, but most seemed too ill for exercise and instead sat on wooden benches in the yard. One man had taken to crawling because his feet hurt so badly.
