The Gathering Storm (32 page)

Eva sighed with relief. "Well, at least the cat is out of the hen coop. They want us to stay put, and do nothing, because they do not know what to do."

"But that is what we shall never do." Hermione held up a regal and instructive finger. She looked at me. "What shall we do?"

I thought a moment before I spoke. "Perhaps something is coming which may break our hearts, but they will not break our will. We will stand firm, as Mister Churchill has said."

253

My admonition to stand firm sounded very noble even as the daily reports of Nazi coastal bombings poured in. In London, British civilian women put away silk stockings and lipstick and donned fashionable uniforms. Our refugees of St. Mark's, as eager to defeat Hitler as any beings on earth, lived under a cloud of suspicion. They wore cast-off clothing and were left to wonder how they might help England to persevere.

We continued to arrange evacuations to the countryside for women and children. British and German dogfights raged high above our heads, yet London remained relatively calm and unscathed. The Nazi assault heated up against English convoys, ports, and manufacturing. We wondered if anywhere in our island haven was safe.

I received a heavily redacted letter from Jessica in Wales, telling
how she and Madame Rose and Cousin Elisa could hear the crump of bombs falling on an unnamed target. They watched the fires set by German incendiary bombs burn a village through a long, long night.

Did we dare send any more orphans to Wales since the attacks seemed to be everywhere?

I took a night off, looking forward to discussing some possibilities over supper in our flat. Eben, bringing his own daily ration of butter and meat, joined Eva, Mac, and me.

We ate by candlelight as the long day drew to a close. Mac played his phonograph records. Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman made the meager meal more enjoyable. I looked up more than once to see Eben's eyes fastened on my face. After a dessert of wild berries Mac and Eva had picked on Hampstead Heath, I read Jessica's letter and the news from Wales aloud.

"A Nazi pilot was shot down and managed to parachute
to safety. Madame Rose and her own little Jerome helped

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254 ~

capture the fellow. Madame Rose held him facedown on the ground in our field with the farmer's shotgun until Jerome could run for help and the farmer and constable arrived. They beat the fellow senseless when he attempted to resist. This after Madame Rose had held him captive on her own for nearly an hour. She attributes this to an angel who accompanies her everywhere, and though I cannot claim I see him, I certainly do believe her account."

Eben, Mac, and Eva applauded Jerome and Madame Rose. Mac declared that a story must be written about this American shotgun-toting missionary and her flock of orphans now capturing downed Huns in Wales.

They were the lucky ones, we concluded. How could we equip our people for the fire that would soon fall upon London?

Eben, who had witnessed the bombing of Madrid in Spain, said, "When they begin to hit London, it will not be hundreds of casualties, but thousands. While they remain here, your women should be trained by the Red Cross. I will speak to the Jewish Agency, and we will make an official request."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the air-raid siren sounded. The anti-aircraft gun on the top of Primrose Hill began to bang away as Nazi aircraft droned toward some target in the Midlands. We carefully gathered the remainder of our pudding and tea and made our way to the tin Anderson shelter in the garden.

It was almost dawn before the all-clear sounded. News came to us in the morning that the Germans had begun firing cannons from France and hitting Britain's shore from across the Channel.

Eben said quietly, this was surely a signal that more difficult days were ahead.

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4

Early on in my service to the Community Undertaking, Placing Children (CUP-C) I learned to hate Sundays at St. Mark's. The mornings were somewhat uncomfortable, as the regular parishioners arrived to hold their Sunday morning service. The unplaced refugees gathered pitiful bundles of belongings and stood around the walls. Knots of children, each with a chaperone who was in some sense a guard, likewise huddled together.

Many of the refugees did not understand the words of the preaching. Many of the parishioners were caught between feeling imposed on and feeling guilty about not doing enough.

Pastor Swanson did his best to alleviate the disquiet. He kept his messages short and encouraged those who were bi-lingual to translate for their countrymen. He also increased the number of hymns that were sung, correctly reasoning that voices lifted in praise to God crossed all national and ethnic boundaries.

The pastor lavished praise on the efforts of the committee and on the community for its involvement in placing the refugees in homes. As he said, "It is entirely right and proper that our organization is known as CUP, because as our Lord and Master said, 'Whoever gives a cup of cold water to the needy, it is the same as doing it for Him.' We may not be able to do much; we may not be able to do all we wish we could, or as quickly as we might wish, but nevertheless, we persist. Each child given shelter, each family given hope, is yet another cup of refreshment. And as the Lord adds, so I also say to you, 'You shall not lose your reward.'"

257

But if Sunday mornings were awkward, the Lord's Day afternoons were downright agonizing. It was around teatime on Sundays that families arrived en masse to look for children to foster.

Despite all CUP's good intentions and Pastor Swanson's kind words, the process shared many of the qualities of a cattle market. Or, as Eben Golah whispered to me, "A slave auction."

All too often the young and cute children were placed in homes right away, leaving their older siblings to languish unwanted against the pillars—the human debris of war. After any blue-eyed, blond-haired urchins had been carted away by families looking for living dolls, next came a cadre of hard-eyed, keen-witted bargainers, who almost had to be prevented from checking teeth and arm strength. These folks were searching for unpaid servants, particularly docile maids, and to some extent, broad-shouldered, young males for service on farms, to replace men absent in the military.

No matter how alarming the motives, we could not turn down those willing to accept refugee children. If our interviews determined the offered living conditions were acceptable and the family's ability to provide food and clothing adequate, then we had little choice but to agree.

When the immediate sorting had been completed and those interviews accomplished, I looked around the room at the ones who had not been selected. Some offered sheepish grins, as if still hoping to find favor. Some glared sullenly, defying anyone to reduce their worth to insignificance because of their hair color or their lack of ability to be beasts of burden.

And then there were those who turned inward, suffering from God only knew what grief and loss.

Yosef Helmann was a perfect example of how imperfect was this system. Born into a middle-class Polish-Jewish family in 1925, he grew up in a German village of less than two thousand souls near the Polish border, where his father kept a textile shop. At first everyone got along: Jews and Gentiles, Poles and Germans.

Then the Nazis came to power.

~ 258 ~

In 1934 Yosef saw his father beaten and left for dead by SA thugs. In 1936 Yosef himself was thrown out of a second-story window by exuberant Hitler Youth eager to prove themselves equal to their elders in their capacity for evil and senseless violence.

Now, at age fourteen, with his scarred face, crooked right arm, and thick glasses, Yosef was alone in an alien land, desired by no one. On his face I read resignation and the desire to end it all. Had I ever been that despairing? After less than a decade and a half of life, was there no hope left for him?

I called him over and tried to console him. This I knew I could not accomplish by false promises that next Sunday would be better or different, so I recounted my own story about escaping from Brussels to England via Dunkirk. How even then I had not known my father and my husband were both dead.

Yosef nodded solemnly. "Two years ago next October the Nazis
told us we had to leave our home. Poles, but especially Polish-Jews, were not wanted in Germany. We were given one day to gather our belongings and leave for Poland.

"But do you know what happened then? The Poles didn't want us either! We were put in a camp between the Polish and German frontiers—a place called Zbaszyn."

I acknowledged that I had heard of that horrid place.

"The lucky ones slept twenty to a small tent. The rest of us shared
smelly blankets on wet ground all winter long." He paused, then shuddered. "I hate cabbage soup. That's all we ate for six months, I think."

"How did you get here?" I encouraged him to continue speaking, trying to establish a connection with him.

Yosef removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. After he replaced them, he resumed, "Three trainloads of us were packed up and sent to the sea coast. Only children, you see. None of the rest of my family." His voice trailed away as we both contemplated what that separation had cost him and what it probably meant. He resumed, "We didn't even know where we were going. Some said

~ 259 ~

Russia; others, Palestine. It wasn't until we were crammed onto a ship that we learned we were coming to England. They assigned me to the grounds of a summer youth camp. It was better than
Zbaszyn," he said, offering me a sly sideways glance and a wry smile.
"Do the British really think the rest of the world eats smoked fish for
breakfast and sausages for supper?"

I smiled in return. "I do not understand kippers either."

"Anyway," Yosef said with a shrug, "when it rained, the camp flooded, so we all had to move again. The next camp over was already full to bursting, so they sent me here instead, where I'm likely to remain until I'm sixteen and forced out on the street."

"That's not going to happen," I vowed, somewhat foolishly.
Oh,
Lord,
I prayed.
How much is enough? When do You show Yourself to
be all-loving and all-merciful?

"Pardon me, miss," said a voice at my elbow.

I looked up to find a tastefully dressed man, of medium height and build, holding a bowler hat as he bowed to me. I almost snickered at the seeming caricature but restrained myself just in time as I recognized what the English call a "gentleman's gentleman," or man-servant.

"May I help you?" I said.

Yosef started to edge away from me but something prompted me to seize his arm and hold on.

"That gentleman over there," the valet said, pointing to Eben Golah, who smiled and waved, "said to speak with you about placing some boys with our establishment."

"Your establishment?"

"I'm sorry if I'm not making myself clear. My name is Flornoy, miss, valet to his Lordship, Baron de Rothschild."

"His...lordship?" Realizing I sounded near to babbling, I swallowed carefully and observed, "Of course. How many can you accommodate?"

"His lordship specified boys," Flornoy said. "I should think, twenty or twenty-five, if you have that many."

~ 260 ~

Without stopping to take a breath I said in a rush, "This is Yosef.
He is my assistant and will be in charge of gathering...twenty-five, you said? It should take...fifteen minutes."

A few days went by, and then I received a letter from Yosef Helmann:

Dear Missus Kepler,

We are at the Baron's country home. As the English say: "We have fallen into a tub of butter!" There is a lake here on
which we may canoe, and tennis courts! We have a regular school. We sleep only three to a room. And best of all, the
village lads came to play football with us and when they left
said, "Let's do this again soon." Can you imagine? And all
of us Jews! Thank you for your prayers, Miss Lora. May the
Almighty reward you.

The flush-faced, broad-hipped young woman who stood before me in St. Mark's Church spoke English with a thick Irish brogue.
"Please, yoor ladyship," she said. "Meghan O'Toole's me name. From
near Warwick." She pronounced it "Wahr-wick," instead of the way the English say "Wor-ick."

I liked her immediately.

"My name is Lora Kepler, Meghan," I corrected. "And I'm not a ladyship. How can I assist you?"

"Well, yoor lay—Missus Kepler, that is—it's like this: I'm maid-of-
all-work to the Tunstall family; them as has gone to America. So they
left me in charge, don'tcha see? To mind after the big house in their absence. There's just me and Liam, but we does what's needed."

"Yes, I see," I encouraged.

"So, me and Liam," she continued, "we wuz talkin'. 'Bout bringin' in a coupla them foreign kids, like. Them as has nowhere's else to go."