# Read the first page of Fall of Poppies by Heather Webb Read the opening of Fall of Poppies by Heather Webb free, no signup. Short stories of love and loss as World War I ends. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/fall-of-poppies-heather-webb - Genre: Historical fiction - Year: 2016 - ISBN: 9780062418548 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780062418562&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780062418548 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780062418548 ## The opening Sister Wilkins caught my eye from across the nurse’s parlor of Institut Cavell. The day I’d been dreading had arrived. The British nurse had lost much during this war, though she knew better than anyone that I’d lost more. She also knew my secret, and that I’d do anything to protect it. “You’re leaving,” I said. “The new hospital is finally finished.” Sister Wilkins spoke in French, like all the nurses here. “If I don’t move the nurses and patients in soon, the governor general will claim it for German wounded. I can’t let them have what Matron Cavell worked so hard to build.” Matron Cavell had designed the new hospital, then watched construction stall when the Germans marched into Belgium on their way to conquer the world. The German occupation had changed everything here in Brussels. Those who dared defy them, as Matron Cavell had done, paid with their lives. I tried not to panic. “She wouldn’t want me turned out on the street. She saved my life.” Memories flooded unbidden, and I saw the group of drunken soldiers coming to claim my family’s tea shop as their new lodgings that first year of the war. The shop was also our home, so Papa tried to defend it. Fists flew, rendering Papa and Maman unconscious. That’s when the Germans held me down. They violated me, then used liquor from their flasks to light the shop on fire before fleeing. It took neighbors an hour to put it out. Maman’s head wounds put her into a sleep from which she never woke. Her slow death weakened Papa. That, and the knowledge of what the Germans had done to me, eventually killed him. I’d tried to hide my disgrace, to ignore the pain between my legs. I never cried in front of him, but the walls between our upstairs bedrooms were damaged. For a month I ran back and forth from Matron Cavell’s clinic for medical supplies and advice on how to care for Papa. He often experienced pains in his chest. One day, they simply overtook him. That was the day I realized I’d missed my monthly bleeding. It was the day I used Papa’s penknife to open my wrists. Now, three years later, safe at the clinic, Sister Wilkins put her hands on my shoulders. “Is that what you think, Amélie? That I’d turn you out on the street after all you’ve done to help this clinic?” My tension eased a little. “No amount of dishwashing and cooking can repay you for housing me and my—” She put a finger over my lips. “I must prepare for tomorrow’s move, so listen to my proposal.” She trailed from the parlor and started upstairs, crisp skirts and white nurse’s apron rustling. “There is one case whose condition is so delicate we must leave him behind.” I followed her, stunned. “You’re leaving a case? An actual medical patient?” She looked over her shoulder. “Give yourself some credit. You’ve heard all of my nursing lectures. If you’d had time to practice your knowledge on the wards, you’d be a nurse by now.” I gasped. “You intend me to nurse this case?” For years I’d been building the courage to step outside of the protective clinic, hoping Sister Wilkins would let me move to the new hospital with her. Matron Cavell had found me that terrible day. She’d stitched my wrists and held me while I cried. My belly swelled, and Matron Cavell tried to convince me a strong woman could transform shame to hope. She’d put a hand on my belly and repeated, “Hope.” I’d refused to believe her. Instead I’d walked to the tea shop, burned a stack of articles I’d drafted in the fireplace, then nailed boards over every window and door. I’d sealed memories and one valuable treasure inside. It was the last time I’d shown myself in public. I’d become part of the clinic, helping Matron Cavell forge documents and cook for the fugitive Allied soldiers, her fellow Englishmen, whom she covertly helped escape to neutral Holland. I’d hidden in the attic when German police came to arrest Matron Cavell for those treasons. Sister Wilkins had allowed me to remain living there, belly shielded from the war outside. There my daughter was born. And there my daughter stayed, for the possibility of encountering the soldiers from the shop terrified me. If they discovered my daughter—well—I would kill anyone who tried to touch her. Sister Wilkins reached the third floor. “I know why you never leave this clinic, and I don’t blame you. With us gone, little Hope will have room to roam.” Matron Cavell would’ve been pleased I’d named my daughter Hope. I washed dishes and laundry in the early mornings before Hope woke, and cooked or listened to nursing lectures in the classrooms during naps. I carried her out to the walled-in garden behind the clinic every morning in good weather; otherwise we remained on the deserted attic floor, out of the way. Now that Hope was nearing her third birthday, she could use more space. “You’ll be safe here. Besides,” Sister Wilkins went on, “this case requires little nursing care.” Most of our cases were ill Belgians. Germans only brought their wounded when there were no other open hospital beds in Brussels. My one remaining underground source informed me Matron Cavell’s execution had caused international uproar. Under Allied pressure, the German governor general not only cracked down on soldiers seizing houses, he kept his men away from Institut Cavell. “Who is this case?” I asked. Wilkins pointed to a door. “A gunshot victim transported here months ago by his commander. If he overheard talk of war, he shook with tremors. They call it shell shock. He seems better now, sitting and staring most of the time.” “So,” I said, concealing my fear, “he is a German soldier?” “Yes, but the commander who brought him was arrested by the governor general. I believe they’ve forgotten about this man.” I turned for the attic. “No. I will return to my tea shop.” She grabbed my arm. “I didn’t want to tell you, but a group of Germans have staked out the tea shop.” Sister Wilkins had been Matron Cavell’s right hand, aware of her treasonous activity, even guiding some Allied soldiers to Holland herself. Like me, she was still in contact with hidden members of the underground network. “The ones who killed my mother?” “I only know they watch it.” I would recognize them. The whole thing was my fault for wearing prohibited Belgian tricolors and circulating copies of La Libre Belgique. The patriotic newssheet protested the German occupation. The governor general had banned it, and I’d done more than just circulate copies. The soldiers had followed me to the tea shop, threatening to arrest me for treason against the occupying government. One soldier in particular with a cigarette and a strong, square jaw kept eyeing the painting by Anthony van Dyck displayed behind our counter. When Papa asked him to leave, he’d blown smoke in my face. He and his comrades returned a week later. That night was a blur of fists, smoke, and a torrent of shameful tears. I didn’t see which man raped me because of the blindfold. Now I imagined my rapist in every German face. “Sister, don’t ask me to care for a German.” Wilkins wore the neutral expression Matron Cavell had always worn; never upset or excited, always calm. “A nurse cares for a person, not a nationality.” “I am no nurse.” “You have what it takes. You embraced an infant that some women in your situation would have abandoned.” “My daughter’s origins are not her fault.” She tipped her head toward the door. “This man’s nationality was not his choice. He followed orders, and now he cannot even speak. All I’m asking you to do is ensure he doesn’t starve.” “If that’s all he needs, why not take him with you?” She hesitated. “When we move to the hospital, the Germans will demand an account of patients. This man’s commander told me to get him well enough to defend his actions. Some Germans realize this war can’t go on. They’re angry. There are riots in Berlin, mutinies in Kiel, and surrenders on the Western Front.” “You suspect this German is a traitor against his own country?” “If so, he should stay here where he won’t be discovered.” I fought a wave of nausea. “You want me to protect him?” “Germans avoid this place, so you will be protected, too.” From my attic window, I’d watched German patrols thin as they shipped available men to the Western Front. If I could just survive until the Germans were beaten, I might return to my shop, sell the valuable van Dyck painting that had passed through my mother’s French family for generations, and use the money to build a new life. ## Books with a similar feel - [The Diplomat's Wife by Pam Jenoff](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-diplomats-wife-pam-jenoff.md) - [The Cure for Drowning by Loghan Paylor](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-cure-for-drowning-loghan-paylor.md) - [When We Had Wings by Ariel Lawhon](https://uncovered.ink/read/when-we-had-wings-ariel-lawhon.md) - [All the Ways We Said Goodbye by Beatriz Williams](https://uncovered.ink/read/all-the-ways-we-said-goodbye-beatriz-williams.md) - [Once in Every Life by Kristin Hannah](https://uncovered.ink/read/once-in-every-life-kristin-hannah.md) - [The Mitford Affair by Marie Benedict](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-mitford-affair-marie-benedict.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. 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