The Gathering Storm (17 page)

The Irishman stepped out from the vestry door and motioned to Papa. Patting Jessica on her shoulder, Papa strode up the steps, vanishing behind the door with the Irishman.

"Who is this Judah fellow?" Jessica asked.

"I'm not sure. I remember some fellow from the Tin Noses Shop
Papa mentioned while we were at the White Rose Inn, but we didn't
meet him. That was years ago. In the summer. The Olympics. If he's
the same fellow. A kind of prophet, Papa said. I didn't pay attention." I frowned, remembering how I had thrown myself at Eben Golah.

Jessica stretched her aching back. In a hushed whisper she said, "I hope the baby is a girl."

"William would want a boy."

"William is gone."

"He would want a boy. He told me so."

"Loralei"—Jessica's voice quavered—"William is dead. There. I
said it."

"Jessica, you mustn't speak such a thing. He could be..."

"Plain truth. You know it. And Varrick. You heard the reports. The newspapers. You haven't shed a tear."

I raised my chin defensively. "I won't. I can't let myself believe it."

"They were the first. Our men. On the front lines and there are none left alive in their unit."

"A rumor. A bad, horribly cruel rumor." "Plain truth. I know it. I dreamed it, and I know." "We're going to keep praying for them until we have proof."

"All the same, I hope I never have a son. Did you see the faces of the women out there? The mothers. No boys at all above the age of sixteen. I've been watching. They're all gone. You can tell the women who have sons. Haunted faces. Like the Virgin Mary must've looked at the crucifixion, I'll bet. Raise a boy for twenty years, and cruelty ends their lives before they have begun. I never want a son. Never."

I fell silent after that. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, but visions of William and Varrick, dead in a ditch, reared up in my mind. German shells would rend the earth as they had done to Pas-sendale twenty years ago. The earth would heal, and trees would
grow again; the poppies of Flanders would bloom. But the boys who
had fallen would not stir and rise like the poppies. They would not awaken until Christ came down from heaven and called out their names, "Lazarus! Come forth!"

Jessica and the girls and I remained in the cool shelter of the chapel while Papa met with Captain Judah Blood behind closed doors in the vestry.

The trio of children played a game of Go Fish with the pack of worn, unmatched playing cards.

Jessica stretched out on the pew and dozed with her head on a wadded-up sweater.

I wandered from window to sundrenched window, each portraying in one glance a familiar, well-loved Bible story. The tourist pamphlet in a rack at the back of the church described the famous windows as containing one hundred faces of courage and hope.

There was no artist's signature on the glass. Classic features of the characters glowed like the illuminated paintings of Pre-Raphaelite masters. The deep, soft folds of the cloak of Jesus lay neatly folded on a stone near the foot of the cross as harsh, cruel-faced Roman soldiers gambled to win it as a prize. The twisted feet of Jesus, pierced with an iron spike driven through His heels, bled within an arm's length of a jeering executioner who tossed the dice.

Opposite that window was another battle: the image of a British officer leading his men out of the trenches and over the barricade into machine gun fire.

Carved in the stone block beneath the scene were the names of those who had fallen and these words:

Now storming fury rose,

And clamour such as heard in Heav'n till now

Was never, arms on armor clashing brayed,

Horrible discord, and the madding wheels

Of brazen chariots rag'd: dire was the noise

Of conflict; overhead the dismal hiss

Offirey darts inflaming volliesflew

And, flying, vaulted either host with fire...

Deeds of eternal fame

Were done, but infinite; for wide was spread

That was, and various: sometimes on firm ground

A standing fight; then soaring on main wing,

Tormented all the air; all air seemed conflicting fire.
²

One hundred faces locked in battles upon which all the souls in all the world depended.

Beautiful and terrible faces. I wondered what artist had created the beauty that now lay directly in the path of approaching battle. I mused at the lack of care demonstrated that such works of art were neither boarded up or taped against the certainty of shell fire.

²
John Milton,
Paradise Lost.

Selecting a prayer book from the rack beside the door, I opened
it randomly. My eyes fell on the prayer service for the fallen soldiers
of Flanders. The words of Ecclesiastes, chapter 3, leapt up. The ink seemed to be black fire on white fire.

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die.

So many had died, and so many more would die before the sun set on this day. The vigil hours had chimed for them even as Jessica's innocent baby prepared to enter a world so cruel the mind could scarcely take it in.

The innocent suffered while cruel men gambled for possessions and power.

After two hours the vestry door opened. Judah Blood, faceless behind the tin face, emerged first into the chapel. So this was the one who warned of what would come upon the world unless brave men stood up and spoke out against tyranny.

Today, even behind an unchangeable expression, Judah's demeanor spoke of the gravity of the situation.

Little Gina asked quietly, "What's wrong with his face, Auntie Loralei? Why does he wear a mask?"

Jessica sat up and answered. "He was injured in the war, dear. He wears a mask because his face was hurt."

The explanation seemed to satisfy the child, who turned her attention back to the cards.

Papa emerged and raised his hand toward us in a gesture that implied the war was going much worse than they had speculated. Only the details remained to be elaborated upon.

I wondered, could a man age ten years in ten days? Papa looked
ten years older than when we had left Brussels. Judah Blood's painted
features would never age. He raised his chin in a kind of salute to me. Did he remember me? Had he met me as a child? I attempted a
s
mile of acknowledgment. He nodded and returned into the vestry closing the heavy door behind him.

Standing up from the pew, I waited for Papa.

He approached and stood silently for a long moment with his hand on the smooth polished mahogany of the pew.

"That fellow, Judah Blood?" My whisper seemed loud.

"Yes." Papa nodded.

"Why is he here?"

"He has lived here since the last war. Would not leave his men. I
met him at the White Rose. It was our first meeting, many years ago."

I thought,
Who could forget the face? A mannequin's face.
Painted. Tiny hairs set in the tin for eyebrows. His eyes, though, were
alive. A lonely man. Fierce and gentle by turns.

"Judah is a gentleman. In the truest sense of the word."

Jessica rubbed her belly as the baby kicked. "The German Resistance. Clearly that's at an end."

Papa glanced up at the crucifix. "Judah knew it would come to this, if the European church failed to speak out. Like Eben Golah, he warned the committee of what would happen."

I said, "I guess no one believed him."

Papa tried to smile an encouraging smile. "Judah is the authority
at Passendale. He says we six may rest inside the church. Jessica. The
baby. He says there are cots in the basement prepared for the field hospital." He paused. "Jessica, take the girls downstairs, will you?"

There was a hint of resentment in Jessicas gaze as Papa dismissed her to tend the children.

Papa did not speak again until Jessica and the children had vanished and their footsteps retreated down the stairwell. "Very dangerous, Lora. Very dangerous. All these refugees. Everyone camped here. Like babies laid down on the tracks in front of a locomotive."

"Who could have imagined?"

Papa took my arm and led me to the side door. He cracked it slightly, allowing me a peek to the west as the sun sank low on the horizon.

Clearly Judah had not only imagined this chaos but warned about it. I spotted him again. He had slipped out another way. His long stride carried him quickly through the campsites toward the caretaker's house nestled behind a high wrought-iron fence. He looked neither to the right nor the left as he picked his way through heaps of belongings. From the back I noted that Judah Blood was a strong, broad-shouldered man with a thick thatch of dark red hair. What sort of man had he been before shrapnel had ripped away his face? Perhaps his features had matched the image of his mask and the strength of his body. Perhaps he had been handsome once?

Papa followed my gaze. "A good man, Judah is."

"The others. The tin men. How long have they lived here caring for the dead?"

"From the last war, until now. He was—Judah is—the artist. The glass in the chapel."

I gasped. My eyes widened as I watched the man without a face of his own who had seen and recreated beauty in the faces gazing down from the window frames.

Papa directed my attention away from Judah. He lifted my chin with one finger. His eyes were deep and sad.

"What is it, Papa?" A sense of dread filled me.

"It will be only a matter of days before the Panzers break through Allied lines."

"But all these people? Papa?"

"The Germans will come here. Are on the way. To Flanders. Like they did in the last war. You heard the stories out of Poland. Holland has already surrendered. Then the Germans bombed Rotterdam
after the
surrender. The lesson is not lost on the other Allies. Belgium and King Leopold hold on by a thread. They are praying the French will come. They won't."

"But the girls! Jessica! The baby! Where can we run to?"

"The sea? How?"

"I don't know. Somehow, England."

I looked around as a group of ragged children played soccer between the rows of white crosses. "England? But Papa, there are so many thousands running away. The Jews. How can they all...?"

"They won't."

"I want to press on. To Paris. The Nazis surely won't make it into Paris. The Allies won't let them take Paris."

"Judah says this time—"

"Judah! Who is he? Who is this man anyway to speak such doom?"

Papa's face clouded at my burst of anger. He closed the door and bolted it as a woman in the yard glanced up and noticed them. "Loralei, Judah Blood has warned us all from the first. He has never been wrong."

"But what about Jessica? The baby! Jessica can't travel until the baby is born. And some time after. How will she...? I mean, if only we had a car." The memory of the comfortable old Fiat seemed like a distant dream. "But where can we go?"

"The coast. Dunkirk. We'll rest here as long as we're able. For Jessica."

As if on cue, Gina darted up the stairs. "Grandpa!" she shouted. Her voice echoed in the rafters, disturbing the sacred hush. "Auntie
Loralei! Come quickly! Mama says for me to fetch you back, Auntie
Loralei. She says the water broke. The pains have started. The baby!"

For the next sixteen hours Jessica lay on a cot in the dimly lit crypt of the chapel. It seemed there was little progress in her labor.

The space was cool and quiet. Papa had long ago sent the trio of girls upstairs. He hung back on the landing—an errand boy following my instructions.

Mama's medical bag was at my feet, but I did not know what was needed to deliver a baby. Disinfectant and cotton gauze and bandages? Everything seemed useless in this situation.

I regretted now I hadn't taken the Red Cross instruction when Mama had done it two years ago. But who could have known?

A kettle of thin broth had been sent over from the caretaker's cottage. A bit of bread. Hot tea and honey. I spoon-fed my sister, changed the towels, and kept the bedding dry, but I did not know what else to do; how to help.

At first we chatted between contractions, but as the hours dragged on, our conversation became terse and focused on strength and enduring the pain.

How pale Jessica was, I thought, as I held her hand. Alabaster skin seemed almost the color of the linens.