Finn shook his head. “Bad water,” he said. It was beyond bad; it was gritty and it stank. Was this man trying to kill him?
The cook refused to look at him as he leaned in and whispered, “Boire. C’est un médicament.”
Finn froze, his cloudy mind trying to parse the words. The cook had spoken in French. He was probably a Belgian, not a German, and he said there was medicine in the water.
It surely tasted bad enough to be medicine, but could he trust the cook? Just because he spoke a few words in French didn’t mean he wasn’t German. And yet when Father Gerhardt collapsed and had to be carried away on the stretcher, the cook looked genuinely sad. He’d made the sign of the cross as Father Gerhardt was taken away.
Finn took the ladle, dipped it into the water, and drank. The bitter liquid left a grainy residue on his tongue and down his throat. Though his stomach threatened to heave, he drank again, this time holding his breath to ensure everything stayed down.
“Thank you,” he said as he returned the dipper. The cook still wouldn’t look at him, but he pointed to the other prisoners sitting beneath the tree before heading off in his distinctive, listing gait.
The gesture was so fast that Finn couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it, but it seemed the cook wanted him to tell the other prisoners about the water. If the other men spat it out or threw the ladle as Finn had done, it would attract the attention of the two soldiers standing guard.
Needles of pain shot up from his feet as he tried to catch up to the cook. He was dizzy by the time he arrived at the bench. Lucas saw him coming and scooted to make room just as Finn collapsed onto the bench.
“The water has medicine in it,” he whispered to Lucas. “Drink it. It tastes bad but get it down.”
Lucus looked surprised, but he drank without complaint. Hisnose wrinkled, and he fought back a gag, but the water stayed down. He then turned to the man next to him, and news about the medicine was passed down the line.
“Are you sure that was medicine?” Lucas whispered.
Finn shrugged. “I hope so. Even if it’s poison, we’re all going to die eventually if something doesn’t change.”
Delia settled into a routine as the summer stretched on. The deprivations of war hovered over the city like a dark, smothering cloud, yet life pressed onward. The perfume from the linden trees mingled with acrid coal smoke, a reminder that the commandeered factories of Brussels still produced munitions to power the German war machine. Street vendors wheeled their carts to-and-fro, filled with whatever meager produce they could scavenge from the countryside.
Despite the comradery among most of the Belgians, the black market still thrived. Frederik Mulder, the man who had tried to bribe Delia for CRB chocolate, always seemed to have food to sell. He could be seen strutting around the Marollen District, a jovial smile plastered on his face as he bartered with desperate people for chocolate, coffee, and tins of food. It was sad to see people trade their watches, jewelry, and family heirlooms for a bit of black-market food.
Delia looked the other way. Her job was to track CRB shipments and ensure they didn’t fall into the hands of the Germans. She couldn’t stop the black market, nor did she even know if that was wise. Who was she to say that a woman shouldn’t trade a pair of earrings if her child needed a can of condensed milk?
At least Delia had succeeded in getting more food for the children at the church orphanage. Her appeal to New York for additional food had resulted in several more sacks of rice, oats, and cans of milk.
Delia’s daily activities now included making batches of brewer’syeast to give to Joseph. The process involved several stages and took ten days to complete. She met Gita at the orphanage kitchen each evening to move production along. A single lantern cast an amber glow over the white enameled kitchen as they worked long into the night. The muscles of Delia’s arms grew strong as she continually stirred the mixture to introduce more oxygen and help the yeast multiply.
Cooking, fermenting, and drying the yeast gave the kitchen a sour, zesty smell. Over time, Delia grew to appreciate the scent because it signaled the growth of lifesaving yeast.
It was hard to tell if the medicine was working. Joseph said the prisoners still complained of worsening symptoms in their swollen limbs, but nobody else had died. Nor did any of the prisoners suffer from chest pain or a racing heart that was the forewarning of imminent death. Dr. Achen speculated that the brewer’s yeast could not cure them but was slowing the progression of the disease, so Delia doubled her efforts to produce a steady supply of daily yeast.
Getting sugar was her only problem. Sugar was necessary for the fermentation process, but aside from the black market, there was simply no sugar to be had. It meant Delia had to resort to working with her least favorite person in all of Belgium.
“I shall happily supply you with sugar,” Frederik Mulder said brightly. “It will cost you, but I’d love to establish a better relationship with the CRB.”
Delia had no idea where Mr. Mulder got the sugar, nor did she care. She paid his exorbitant price for the sugar from her own pocket and put it to work making yeast.
“I hated putting a single franc into that man’s grubby hand,” she told Gita later that evening as she stirred a cooking mixture. “The first time we met, he implied his wife was ill and only a crate of chocolate would cure her.”
Gita rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even have a wife, though I always see him squiring women about town. I suspect they likethe sugar and chocolate and whatever other black-market goodies he’s got.”
Gita added a few more lumps of fermented yeast into a large bowl and began grinding it into a powder with the pestle. “Do you think you’ll marry Finn when this is all over?” she asked.
Delia paused her stirring. In the past, Finn’s reckless nature scared her away. Sometimes his gambles worked, and sometimes they were catastrophic. And yet knowing him had made her a better person. Braver and more generous. Less focused on herself and her own needs.
“I’d like to,” she finally said. “I don’t know if he’ll survive or if he’ll come out of prison a different person, but I’ve learned to weather storms and to forgive. He may need both when he finally gets out of that dungeon.”
“And if he doesn’t survive?”
The question hung in the air. Contemplating Finn’s death felt disloyal, even if it was a real possibility. She managed a sad smile. “If Finn doesn’t make it, maybe I’ll become a nun like you.”
Gita wagged her finger. “I’m not a nun yet, just a novice. I don’t take my final vows for another six months. I can still bail out if I want. There’s no shame in it.”
