Fall
of Poppies: Stories of Love and the Great War
by
Heather
Webb, Hazel
Gaynor, Beatriz
Williams, Jennifer
Robson, Jessica
Brockmole, Kate Kerrigan, Evangeline
Holland, Lauren
Willig, Marci
Jefferson
William Morrow Trade Paperback;
March 1, 2016; $14.99;
ISBN: 9780062418548
Top
voices in historical fiction deliver an intensely moving collection
of short stories about loss, longing, and hope in the aftermath of
World War I—featuring bestselling authors such as Hazel Gaynor,
Jennifer Robson, Beatriz Williams, and Lauren Willig and edited by
Heather Webb.
A
squadron commander searches for meaning in the tattered photo of a
girl he’s never met…
A
Belgian rebel hides from the world, only to find herself nursing the
enemy…
A
young airman marries a stranger to save her honor—and prays to
survive long enough to love her…The peace treaty signed on November
11, 1918, may herald the end of the Great War but for its survivors,
the smoke is only beginning to clear. Picking up the pieces of
shattered lives will take courage, resilience, and trust.
Within
crumbled city walls and scarred souls, war’s echoes linger. But
when the fighting ceases, renewal begins…and hope takes root in a
fall of poppies.
Excerpt
from “Hour of the Bells”
A
short story included in Fall of Poppies
Beatrix
whisked around the showroom, feather duster in hand. Not a speck of
dirt could remain or Joseph would be disappointed. The hour struck
noon. A chorus of clocks whirred, their birds popping out from hiding
to announce midday. Maidens twirled in their frocks with braids down
their backs, woodcutters clacked their axes against pine, and the odd
sawmill wheel spun in tune to the melody of a nursery rhyme. Two
dozen cuckoos warbled and dinged, each crafted with loving detail by
the same pair of hands—those with thick fingers and a steady grip.
Beatrix
paused in her cleaning. One clock chimed to its own rhythm, apart
from the others.
She
could turn them off—the tinkling melodies, the incessant clatter of
pendulums, wheels, and cogs, with the levers located near the
weights—just as their creator had done before bed each evening, but
she could not bring herself to do the same. To silence their music
was to silence him,
her husband, Joseph. The Great War had already done that; ravaged his
gentle nature, stolen his final breath, and silenced him forever.
In
a rush, Beatrix scurried from one clock to the next, assessing which
needed oiling. With the final stroke of twelve, she found the
offending clock. Its walnut face, less ornate than the others, had
been her favorite, always. A winter scene displayed a cluster of
snow-topped evergreens; rabbits and fawns danced in the drifts when
the music began, and a scarlet cardinal dipped its head and opened
its beak to the beauty of the music. The animals’ simplicity
appealed to her now more than ever. With care, she removed the
weights and pendulum, and unscrewed the back of the clock. She was
grateful she had watched her husband tend to them so often. She could
still see Joseph, blue eyes peering over his spectacles, focused on a
figurine as he painted detailing on the linden wood. His patient
hands had caressed the figures lovingly, as he had caressed her.
The
memory of him sliced her open. She laid her head on the table as
black
pain stole over her body, pooling in every hidden pocket and filling
her up until she could scarcely breathe.
“Give
it time,” her friend Adelaide had said, as she set a basket of jam
and dried sausages on the table; treasures in these times of rations,
yet meager condolence for what Beatrix had lost.
“Time?”
Beatrix had laughed, a hollow sound, and moved to the window
overlooking the grassy patch of yard. The Vosges mountains rose in
the distance, lording over the line between France and Germany along
the battle front. Time’s passage never escaped her—not for a
moment. The clocks made sure of it. There weren’t enough minutes,
enough hours, to erase her loss.
As
quickly as the grief came, it fled. Though always powerful, its
timing perplexed her. Pain stole through the night, or erupted at
unlikely moments, until she feared its onslaught the way others
feared death. Death felt easier, somehow.
Beatrix
raised her head and pushed herself up from the table to finish her
task. Joseph would not want her to mourn, after two long years. He
would want to see her strength, her resilience, especially for their
son. She pretended Adrien was away at school, though he had enlisted,
too. His enlistment had been her fault. A vision of her son cutting
barbed wire, sleeping in trenches, and pointing a gun at another man
reignited the pain and it began to pool again. She suppressed the
horrid thoughts quickly, and locked them away in a corner of her
mind.
With
a light touch she cleaned the clock’s bellows and dials, and
anointed its oil bath with a few glistening drops. Once satisfied
with her work, she hung the clock in its rightful place above the
phonograph, where a disk waited patiently on the spool. She spun the
disk once and watched the printed words on its center blur. Adrien
had played Quand
Madelon over and
over, belting out the patriotic lyrics in time with the music. To
him, it was a show of his support for his country. To Beatrix it had
been a siren, a warning her only son would soon join the fight. His
father’s death was the final push he had needed. The lure of
patrimoine,
of country, throbbed inside of him as it did in other men. They
talked of war as women spoke of tea sets and linens, yearned for it
as women yearned for children. Now, the war had seduced her Adrien.
She stopped the spinning disk and plucked it from its wheel, the urge
to destroy it pulsing in her hands.
She
must try to be more optimistic. Surely God would not take all she had
left.
