The Gathering Storm (29 page)

As Eben and I stood witness, Eva and Mac were married. I felt Eva's breathlessness as Mac gazed down into her face. Her cheeks, as smooth and white as porcelain, blushed a little when the pastor said Mac could kiss his bride. Mac's lips hovered above hers. There was a delicious moment of hesitation. It was the sort of pause that comes when a thing of beauty is first embraced by the eye, or the scent of a rose is inhaled, or wind like the hand of an angel bends the tree tops. All this was in Mac's faint smile as he touched his lips to Eva's mouth. Her head back and eyes closed, she savored his kiss. I watched them seal their covenant of love as though I was seeing my memory play out before me.

~ 231 ~

Only this was their life, not mine. My life seemed finished before
it had begun. Was my expression wistful? I felt tears burn my eyes.

The kiss lingered. I turned my gaze away from them, knowing what was to come beyond their kiss. A dance. The tango, slow and smooth. The man leading each step and the woman yielding, following, reaching, moving to his will and to his rhythm.

I knew the dance. I heard the music far away. My body longed for the music and the dance.

When I looked up, Eben was staring at me in the same way I stared at them.

I smiled back at him and raised my eyebrows as if their lingering kiss amused me.

Eva and Mac surfaced and looked around dreamily. I embraced Eva. Her heart was racing. Her happy tears dampened my shoulder.

"Well," Mac said, "I guess I'm hooked for good."

Eben shook his hand heartily. I kissed Mac's cheek. Congratulations were spread all around as we witnessed and signed the document declaring the marriage was official.

And then we were all out in the cool night air of wartime London.

Mac said awkwardly, "Thanks so much. Very much. We'll be heading back to the flat now."

Eva took my arm. "Oh, Lora! If it's all right. I mean, you weren't around to ask, and I...we...I mean, I knew you were staying at the church. Helping out with the—"

I had not seen it coming, but I wished I had thought of their honeymoon and offered them the use of the flat. "Of course. Not a problem. I'll swing by and pick up a few things."

We rode together on the bus back to Primrose Hill. Eben sat stiffly beside me as Mac and Eva kissed in the seat at the very back.

I heard Mac say, "I have a surprise for you, my darling Eva. Have
you ever heard of Rudy Vallee?"

Neither Eben nor I commented on Mac's choice of music as we walked from the bus stop to the door of our flat.

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Mac lifted Eva into his arms and carried her across the threshold.

Eben waited for me outside on the steps as I dashed in and
threw a few things into a satchel. I spoke to Eva and Mac as I passed
them in the foyer, but they did not seem to notice me.

The door slammed closed, and I felt as though I had escaped a room where the heat had been turned up too high.

Eben was barely visible in the darkness. I could hear the grin in his voice. "I keep looking at the chimney for sparks. Scorch your dress as you passed?"

I laughed. "Incendiary bombs have nothing on them. I'm afraid the house will ignite when he plays her the Rudy Vallee recording."

From behind the blackout curtain we heard the phonograph belch out the first notes of the Rudy Vallee song, "Orchids in the Moonlight."

"When orchids bloom in the moonlight, And lovers vow to be true, I can still dream in the moonlight Of one sweet night that we knew..."

"Well," Eben said, "I guess that's it."

"Must be," I said too loudly. I felt my eyes widen, and I clamped
my hand over my mouth.

Eben mused, "You think a man like Mac McGrath is a fan of Rudy Vallee?"

"Hmmm. Must be. I don't know about Eva. I mean, she's Polish."

There was a long pause as we imagined the rugged bachelor alone in his room playing Rudy Vallee phonograph records as he dreamed of love.

I whispered in astonishment, "Mac MacGrath? Could it be?"

Then Eben snorted, and I began to laugh. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. Leaning against the pillar we howled until tears flowed from our eyes.

~ 233 ~

Gasping for breath, Eben grabbed my arm and led me quickly down the walk. "We are quite thoughtless."

"Insensitive."

"Crass." More gales of laughter as we shuffled along the sidewalk
with no destination or purpose in mind.

"Where shall we go?" Eben said cheerfully.

"I don't know. I suppose back to St. Mark's." For the first time in days I was happy. "I can sleep in the choir loft."

Instead of returning immediately to St. Mark's, Eben and I climbed to the top of Primrose Hill Park. The details of the city were lost beneath
a blanket of darkness. He spread his jacket out on the grass beneath a plane tree, and we sat down. I tried very hard not to imagine the
romance of Mac and Eva in my little flat at the foot of the hill.

I asked, "How long do you think I will be banished from my own
bed?"

"You should give them a few days alone, I should think," Eben answered.

"A honeymoon. It may be their only chance."

"The Germans have moved their planes to new bases in France-much closer to us. Soon it will become very difficult indeed for this little island, I think."

"Then I'll let Eva and Mac stay in the flat as long as they can. To be alone."

"Yes. Kind of you. We can't know how bad it will become. How much
time we may have? Kind of you, that is, if you have a place to sleep."

"The church first. And then I was thinking the Young Women's Christian Association."

"The one on Great Russell Street?"

"That's it."

"Overflowing, I'm afraid. They've double-bunked all the women in one wing and returning BEF soldiers have taken over the rest."

~ 234 ~

"Oh well, then. I'll stay at the church. After all, I have experience
with difficult living arrangements. You should have seen us camping
in Papa's Fiat."

"Ah, yes. I forgot you are a seasoned pro at this sort of thing." He laughed. After that he was silent, thoughtful for a time. I did not interrupt his reflection.

Eben said at last, "Again, I am sorry about your husband."

"Thank you."

"You were not married long."

"You knew our fathers in Berlin. We were friends, and then... I knew I loved him. We were together in Brussels for a short time, but then the war came and he had to go. Not much time to get to know each other, I suppose—hardly any—but I loved him. With all the passion of a first love."

"You were so young. Are," he corrected himself, "are so young."

"I was young. All of us were young. But then we grew up when Hitler drove through the streets and the crowd of his old friends followed him. Or when the first Gestapo agent knocked on the door. You know, young in years is not young at heart. I sometimes feel as though I have lived ten lifetimes."

His head bowed slightly as I spoke. "I understand."

Something in the tenor of his voice told me again that this was a man well acquainted with suffering. What did I know about Eben Golah really? He had come to my father's study to speak of the exodus of Jews from Germany. He had given us the warning of impending attack on the day of Kristallnacht.

Somehow he had escaped the onslaught. But what did I know about his own suffering?

I asked, "Tell me about yourself. I know my father thought well of you. And Bonhoeffer too. The others."

"But they did not heed my warning. They only half-believed it would come to this." He spread his hands over the city. "This night. This moment." He groaned softly. "I see the fires yet to come. I feel the heat."

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"When?"

"Soon. Weeks at most, and then it will begin. Here."

"How can you know?"

He did not reply, but I understood he had no doubts. "So, you have a job. A purpose." He had changed the subject.

"I suppose I'll continue on at the church."

"You are an excellent linguist. Translation. Your father taught you well."

"He believed language was the most important...."

"How would you like an official position with us?"

"Us?"

"The Jewish Agency. Immigration. Working together with the U.S. and the British governments. We need a skilled translator. An
English language teacher. Someone to help refugees learn English. To help them tell their stories in a common tongue. For more placements,
you understand? They cannot work if they can't speak English."

I brightened, suddenly feeling I had some purpose in the midst of this chaos. I could see past my own personal loss and help others like myself to find solid ground upon which to stand. "Yes. I have already been..."

"We know how you have been working. We have been watching."

"Where?"

"At St. Mark's. I'll arrange for you to have a salary. I will be your
liaison. You'll bridge the gap between the wide world and those who are lost in it. You'll speak for those who have no voice."

"When?"

"Tomorrow? You'll need a good night's sleep. I'll walk you back to the church now. Tomorrow morning we'll begin."

236

T

he casualty lists grew longer every day. So many brave men ] died in France. So many women, mothers, sisters, and wives grieved. I was only one young widow among thousands in England. With these, my sisters of the heart, I put my suffering behind me for the sake of the living.

As the bombing of England increased I fingered the telegram and prayed I might remember the greater need. The heart of my father called me to press on. I was consumed by the desire to do what I could for those whose suffering and loss were beyond my own.

The Nazi invasion of the Channel Islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark sent another wave of desperate refugees to the shores of England. French Jews who had fled to the islands, hoping to escape battles in their homeland, arrived with the departing British. They escaped across the stormy Channel waters in tiny sailboats, fishing boats, and skiffs. British patrol boats rescued some while others washed onto British beaches planted with tank traps and land mines strung with concertina wire.

The suspicions of the British government about every new arrival
were heightened as the Nazi air assault along the coast increased, and news of casualties poured over the wires. The German invasion of England seemed certain...and imminent.

Eben came to my office with a long list of Jewish Channel Island refugees. He was all business, scarcely looking at my face. "The Jewish Agency needs your help placing 163 Jews from the four islands. Many among them do not have documentation. Most are secular Jews. Women with children sent from France, Holland, and Belgium

~ 237 ~

by their husbands to wait for the end of the war. With the fall of France, no French Jew will be going home any time soon."

I scanned the list of new arrivals. French and Belgian women were not difficult to place as servants. The Dutch were at a disadvantage because of their Germanic-sounding accents. "More Dutch Jews than French," I said, very businesslike. "And so many youngsters."

"Do your best, Lor a. I know...we know, you will do your best." He
thanked me and turned to go. Then, as if he had a second thought, he turned round and took an envelope from his pocket. "I wrote this some time ago. For you." He placed it on the corner of my desk and hurried from the room.

My heart was pounding. I waited until his footfall receded down the corridor. The door to the street slammed. I rose and closed my door, shutting out the clamor of children's voices as they practiced English in an adjacent classroom.

Lifting my chin and drawing a breath, I picked up Eben's letter and slowly opened the envelope. An old black-and-white photograph fluttered to the ground. Retrieving it I saw it was a picture of me between Mama and Papa beside the white rose tree that embraced the iron fence outside the White Rose Inn in Switzerland. I did not remember Eben had snapped it.

It was the only photograph of my father that survived.

"Papa." I smiled and propped it up on the base of my desk lamp.

Looking into the envelope I found a folded paper, containing a closeup of myself, so young and innocent, standing alone among the blooming roses.

Eben's message to me was thirty-six lines inscribed in a beautiful Victorian hand. The words were arranged vertically on a hand-drawn trellis of thirty-six roses.

For Lora—The White Rose.

Sweet familiar

~
238 ~

scent

gentle