The Gathering Storm (36 page)

I asked, "What is it? What do you see?"

"I stood on the edge of a clear sea one morning. Water so clear
I could see the boulders seventy feet down. Your eyes, Lora, remind
me of...that. Beautiful. Deep. Clear. I see into your soul."

"I look up into a clear blue sky, then I carry my umbrella because
I think it might storm."

"It will. Thunder and lightning. A downpour, Lora. Bucketing down. Someday."

"We are speaking in metaphors again, aren't we?"

Eben's smile was as gentle as if he was calming the fears of a small child. "Yes, Lora. The trick is not to fear the storm when it comes. Knowing it will pass."

That day, as we sat together for hours in the noisy tea room, something happened in my heart and was confirmed in Eben's gaze.
Time seemed like nothing when I was with Eben. We walked for many
hours in the park. At sunset he took me home and ordered me to
sleep, leaving me with these words: "Joy will come in the morning."

286

T

he meeting place of the Select Committee for the Consideration of Refugee Affairs was in an Army Stores Depot in Dept-ford. Located east of London and south of the Thames, the area was dank, dirty, smelly, and subject to miasmic fogs.

Eben told me that part of the lingering acrid aroma was due to the fact that the area had been a cattle market until the British army took it over in 1914. "Before that it was a British navy chandler's
yard clear back to King Henry the Eighth," he added. "Amazing how
the effect of combining manure and tar survives long after the visible evidence is gone."

The Select Committee consisted of a lean, pinch-faced magistrate, with the peering eyes and hunched shoulders of Ebenezer Scrooge. Flanking Magistrate Hawley on his right was a larger-than-life-sized woman, Mrs. Somersett, from the British Home Secretary's office. On Hawley's left was Major John Vincent, who had lost his right leg in 1918, but who now represented the Local Defense Volunteers detailed to guard the "dangerous" refugees.

Despite the benign-sounding name of the committee, I could not help but think of them as a tribunal, like in Dickens'
Tale of Two Cities.
These three judges had the power to round up and commit to imprisonment, without trial and without appeal, all foreign refugees within the environs of London.

It was terrifying.

I was glad my part in preparing for today's proceedings had been that of arranging for the participation of Madame Rose and

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Mac McGrath. That Eben Golah came with me was a given. Since most of the detained evacuees were Jews, Eben's position as representative of the Jewish Refugee Placement Agency was expected.

None of the detainees were present. None of the evacuees were allowed to speak on their own behalf. That weight fell squarely on the shoulders of Eben and Madame Rose.

"Come, come," Hawley intoned. "Let's begin. We haven't got all day."

"With respect, mi'lawd," Eben said, "since we are considering what may be the lengthy incarceration of innocent people, let us proceed with all...deliberate...speed."

"Innocent," I heard Major Vincent mutter. "Fifth columnists, more like."

"Who will speak first?" Hawley demanded.

Madame Rose, who had returned at my request, specifically for this meeting, stood and cleared her throat. In the enclosed space with the high ceiling the effect was akin to firing off a small cannon. "I am Madame Rose, lately of La Huchette orphanage in Paris. I am an American, so you would not dare to detain me! But since many of the children imprisoned by your orders were brought to this country by me, it is for me to present their case." Madame Rose turned her withering gaze on the lone woman member of the committee. Mrs. Somersett quailed and dropped her eyes.

"You have perhaps heard," Madame Rose continued, "of how we, my children and I, escaped from the chaos of Paris and survived a Channel crossing in a canal barge at the height of the Dunkirk miracle. We even"—here Madame Rose fixed her sights on Major Vincent—"managed to cram some British soldiers on to our decks, so my children actually participated in the rescue efforts. In proof of which, I have pictures."

Mac and Eva stood and between them unfolded and displayed the
Times
front-page photograph of the
Stinking Garlic
being towed into
port, its deck jammed with waving children and cheering Tommies. "And
I am a witness," Mac sang out. "I'm the one who took the pictures."

"And who might you be?" Hawley demanded.

~ 288 ~

"Nobody, really," Mac said with a wicked grin. "Mac McGrath. American too. I work for TENS. Maybe you've heard of them? American news agency with—oh, I dunno—maybe forty million readers. America, while officially neutral, has a keen interest in watching how England treats immigrants."

When Madame Rose, Mac, and Eva sat again on the wobbly wooden bench, it was Eben's turn to rise. He introduced himself, then said, "Here is how I see it: quite apart from what could be considered ingratitude." He nodded toward Madame Rose. "And without regard to possible damage done to Anglo-American relations, there are still two more points to consider. The first is that these fathers, mothers, boys, and girls have no countries to which they can return. Jews cannot go back to Germany without being interned...or worse. France has fallen, Holland has fallen, Belgium has fallen, Poland has fallen. You may not want them here, but where would you suggest they go?"

"We're in a war," Vincent argued. "Can't have unknown foreigners traipsing across the countryside, now can we?"

"Not our problem, is it?" Hawley rumbled.

"But that is where you're wrong!" Eben thundered.

I shivered at his rebuke. It reminded me of the story of how the prophet Nathan confronted King David, shaking a finger in the king's face and shouting, "Thou art the man!"

"What do you mean by that?" Hawley demanded.

"These people are Jews. My kinsmen. If they were allowed to choose, many of them would go to Palestine. But they are not permitted that choice. The British government has refused—categorically denied—the right of Jews leaving Nazi-occupied Europe to have entry into the British Mandate of Palestine. Very well. They cannot go home. They cannot go where they wish. Will you, then, keep them imprisoned for the duration of the war? Keep in mind they have escaped the very tyranny your brave soldiers and sailors are trying so desperately to keep from reaching these shores. They know how the Nazis operate, how they think, how they strike. If

~ 289 ~

you crush the spirits of those who fled to you for refuge, what a denial of your own glorious heritage."

It was impressive, but not enough. The woman, Mrs. Somersett, might be convinced, but not the two men. Hawley was obstinate; Vincent, belligerent.

It was with some surprise I found myself on my feet. "Sirs," I said, "may I say a word?"

"And you are?"

"Lora Bittick Kepler. My father is...was...Robert Bittick of Brussels. The Nazis killed him. He was aiding the wounded at the defense of Passendale."

Mrs. Somersett nodded vigorously and leaned over to whisper in Hawley's ear.

"Though I am also a refugee," I continued, "I am American, and my own status is not in question. I have been vouched for by members of the British government."

More whispering.

"You may speak," Hawley allowed.

"I had not intended to, but feel I must," I said. "I want to tell you
the story of a young woman, almost the same age as myself. Her name
was Inga. She was one of a million refugees running ahead of the Blitzkrieg. She could not run fast enough, and during the panic"—I drew a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Eben squeezed my
hand in encouragement—"in the escape she was caught...and raped."
Fixing my eyes on Mrs. Somersett, I continued, "Brutalized. You may say such things happen in war, and that is easy to say when you do not
know the names and faces of the victims. But I met Inga...after she
managed to arrive in England. I heard her story. I saw how the flame of her life was barely flickering. She could not speak; could barely
breathe. Life was not precious to her; she barely still lived at all. Then,
just in the smallest way, she came to have hope. She began to talk to me; to recognize that she might once more feel safe...feel protected."

I shook my head sadly and could not keep the tears from coursing down my face. "Inga began to speak of helping others;

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reaching those who daily lived with recurring nightmares. Then she was rounded up, transported by cattle truck—
by cattle truck—
-to a prison camp. She had come so far, endured so much...for what?"

During the last sentence the volume of my voice had dropped so low that the three members of the committee were leaning forward to hear the conclusion. "Inga," I said, "killed herself. She gave up hope for rescue and protection. She gave up wanting to live."

I sank to my seat. Eben embraced me. Madame Rose patted my arm. Mac scowled, and Eva cried softly.

The committee deliberated fifteen minutes in private, then
returned. "We find," Magistrate Hawley intoned, "that we must enforce
the provisions of the Alien Registration Act...in regard to adult males,
who are going to be interned on the Isle of Man. However, all females
and all children under the age of sixteen will be released and returned to the responsibility of the appropriate agencies. We are adjourned."

At nine in the morning the trucks bearing our freed exiles began arriving at St. Mark's. The auditorium was filled with laughter and the babble of a half dozen languages as territory was reclaimed by former occupants.

There was only one who was missing among the crowd. I felt the loss of Inga acutely. I could not help but think how different her story might have been if only she had waited.

Along with the hundreds of familiar faces, suddenly there were also mother-and-child refugees who had been arrested in a dozen locations around London. They were released to our care through the decision of the tribunal.

By midday our ranks had swelled to more than double the number of those who had first come to us. It was to be my task to find homes around Great Britain for them all.

Eva joined me to help as we personally took charge of reregister
ing women with children under sixteen. We divided the queue into

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two groups: one for refugees from Eastern Europe, and the other for
Dutch and French languages. I was grateful for Eva's mastery of Pol
ish and Czech and her smattering of Russian. In between long, animated conversations with refugees she would speak to me or Her-mione, demonstrating her mastery of English as learned from Mac.

"You could have knocked me over with a fender. Polish, she is. That woman has five children, and she left when the Nazis came. Leaving her husband where he lies under the affluence of alcohol, she takes it on the sheep to England."

"I understood nearly everything except the sheep," Hermione droned.

Eva blinked at the ceiling. "On the sheep. Takes it on the sheep."

I got it. "On the lam."

Eva squinted her eyes. "What does it mean?"

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Must be American. One cannot understand anything they say."

My task was easier than translating Eva's faulty American slang. I worked mostly with families speaking Germanic languages, French, Italian, and a smattering of Spanish.

Hermione, her voice shrill like a London Bobby's whistle, spoke
only English to everyone. With a series of gestures and grimaces she managed to get her message across clearly.

In one magnificent day the refuge that was St. Mark's became a cross between Noah's Ark and the confusion of the Tower of Babel.

So many refugees to feed and clothe and house. How could we begin to manage them all?

"Our responsibility is great," Hermione admonished us as she brought us tea. The sun sank low, and there were still so many waiting in the line.

Eva nodded solemnly and tapped her pencil on the stack of applications. "As Mac says, 'The butt stops here.'"

Hermione sniffed and raised her chin regally. "Hmm, Americans. My dear. In the vernacular, we British might say, rather, 'The bum stops here.'"

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^{PART SEVEN}

A time to love.

ECCLESIASTES 3:8A

I

n mid-August we heard the news on the BBC. Nazi Deputy Rudolf
Hess promised impending military action against Britain.

The Blitzkrieg against London was on.

We spent days and nights descending into deep tube stations
for shelter, and climbing up the stairs some hours later to find whole
blocks of London shattered.