The Gathering Storm (10 page)

I could not speak. I did love him, I discovered. I nodded. "Soon."

The next time I ever saw Eben Golah was on the eve of great terror and tragedy. It was late afternoon on the ninth of November, 1938. Mama was in the kitchen, so when Eben Golah came to our home, I answered his knock. He asked to speak with my father, alone. I ushered him into Papa's study, but I left the door slightly ajar after presenting him.

Such was the air of mystery around the man I could not help listening in the hallway outside.

What I overheard made me shudder.

"It will happen tonight," Golah said to my father. "It will be the worst flexing of Nazi muscle yet seen."

"How do you know this?" Papa queried.

Golah's reply was dismissive of that issue. "Not important. What you need to know is this: tonight will be organized mayhem and destruction. Tonight the thugs will not be drunken rowdies too deep in their schnapps to stand erect. Storm Troopers dressed as civilians have lists of Jewish homes and businesses. It will occur all over Germany, tonight! Tomorrow Hitler will give out the word this was a spontaneous uprising against the criminal, subversive
Jews, but every torch is allotted a Jewish building; every club a Jew
ish skull."

"The methodical Aryan setting about his chosen profession," Papa said bitterly. "Is there time to get our friends out of Berlin? Country villages, perhaps...no?"

I knew from my father's sorrowful ending groan that Eben
Golah had shaken his head. I shivered as he answered: "There is no town or village that is safe." He paused.

I held one hand to my mouth and pressed the other to my stomach as I gasped for breath. I had been working for months, unsuccessfully, to get Varrick's family out of Germany.

Then Golah continued, "There is only this ray of hope."

With difficulty I refrained from shouting, "What is it?" even as Papa voiced the same inquiry.

"Jewish homes and synagogues may be attacked only if there is no danger to Aryan houses and shops," Golah said. "If you pack your friends into the church, lives may be saved."

A muffled thud rattled the walls of our house. Seconds afterward, screams and cries echoed down the street.

Heedless of revealing my eavesdropping, I rushed into my father's
office to join the two men at the window. "I'm too late," Golah said, his shoulders drooping.

"Papa, what?" I demanded.

"They've bombed the synagogue," he said, pointing at the flames
shooting from the roof of the Jewish house of worship. A column of black, oily smoke ascended over Berlin, joining thousands of sacrificial pyres set ablaze all across Germany.

"I must go," Eben Golah said. "The mob is gathered in front of the synagogue for now, enjoying the spectacle. As soon as the novelty wears off, they will fan out through the Jewish homes clustered
nearby. If I use the alleyways behind the synagogue I may help some
to escape."

"I'll go with you," Papa offered.

Eben Golah shook his head. "Save your own flock, Pastor Bit-tick. The others are in the hands of Adonai."

My father clasped Golah's hand, hugged him, then the messenger raced away, pausing only to note my mother's stricken face and the fear in my eyes. "Courage," he said, and he was gone.

My father set me to work telephoning those members of our congregation who were Jewish by heritage. "I'll run to the ones who
live nearest," he instructed, giving me their names. "You call the others." There was no safety in Messianic faith tonight. Even if they
were not already marked on Nazi lists, many Aryan neighbors would
be happy to denounce Jewish Christians to the Storm Troopers.

Though the list of the telephone exchange was alphabetical, the number I first requested was the Kepler residence.

There was no answer.

The next three homes I contacted were answered by fearful
voices. "It's Lora Bittick Kepler. My father says, 'Go to the church. Go
to the churchyard door. Take blankets, but go now'" Then I rang off.

Feeling justified by my trio of successes, I tried the Keplers again.

Still no response.

Two others did not pick up, then I got three more grateful reactions of: "Yes! Yes, right away. Thank you!"

When I asked for the Kepler home yet again, there was no corresponding buzz to show it rang. Clicking the receiver, I asked the operator to check the line. She replied that it was dead, but in any case the switchboard was overwhelmed with emergency calls, and I must now stay off the line.

My father reappeared, and I gave him my report, emphasizing my failure with Varrick's parents. He tried to reassure me: "Richard Kepler and I have spoken of this before. He's a good man. He'll remember what to do." My mother stood in the doorway, balancing a stack of coverlets and family heirloom quilts. To her, Papa said, "Stay here and keep the door locked. I won't be back tonight, but I'll try to get home tomorrow."

At that my mother verbally put her foot down. "We will not be
separated," she said firmly. "If you're going, so are we. Mothers will
need help with babies, won't they? And with keeping the children entertained and quiet?"

When Papa opened his mouth as if to protest, she said quickly, "We're all going."

Papa insisted on checking first to see if it was safe for us.

Moments later, Papa, flanked by brownshirted Stormtroopers,
was forcibly returned. "We're being expelled from Germany," he said
glumly to Mama. "Your citizenship saved us. But we must leave."

We returned to Brussels, and Papa took his place again as headmaster of Alderman School. Varrick joined the British as a translator and liaison between British and Belgian forces. Jessicas husband, William, was in the Belgian army.

We lived in blithe, foolish hope there would be some great falling out between Hitler and Stalin that would, in the end, destroy both tyrants.

It was not to be.

And so we lived our ordinary lives, worrying about things that had no significance except to distract us from looking at the stars. I longed for a baby. Whenever his duties did not call him away from Brussels, Varrick was always eager to assist me in fulfilling this ambition.

I continued to work for the hour when we might see his family escape from the Reich. Our hope to win their freedom was the preoccupation of our every waking hour. In those brief visits when Varrick came home on leave, we divided our time between the visa offices of the U.S. Embassy and the British Embassy. Our letters during the long months of separation were filled with disappointing news about denied visas and immigration quotas that had already been filled by needy children.

And when, at last, Poland was invaded in September 1939, word
came to my father that Varrick s father and mother and brother had simply vanished one night. Arrested by the Gestapo, they were three Jews among millions.

Our entreaties turned to the constant vigil of prayer for their survival.

With Varrick's military duty and long absences, I turned my
heart toward helping the refugee children. Jessica, Mama, and I worked every day among the displaced persons. Their sorrow was so much greater than our own. It put the blessings of our ordinary lives in perspective. Mama's Texas friends made and shipped new clothes for our refugee children. Hand-me-downs were not accepted by the Texas Christian Missionary Society. New quilts. New clothes. New shoes. Hair ribbons and toy pop guns at Christmas to fight the Nazis. Mama personally oversaw the placement of 613 Jewish orphans in the U.S. A rabbi told her later that 613 was the exact number of laws in Torah.

She replied in her Texan way, "This isn't about the laws. This is about all men's broken lives being healed by God's grace."

I am sure he approved of what she said.

Then tragedy came to our home suddenly and without warning. Mama, the joy of Papa's life and the anchor of mine, died of a burst appendix.

Could it be, we asked ourselves, when we all needed her so much?
When the darkness of this world was illuminated by her kind heart and ready smile? Could the merciful Lord take away our rock when there was so much heartache poised to spring on our future?

Jessica and I had believed our mother's strength was so much greater than ours. Suddenly, when we needed that strength to survive, we discovered it had become our own spiritual heritage.

_{PART THREE}

A time ofwa
and a time of peace.

ECCLESIASTES 3:8B

MAY 10, 1940 BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

The drive across blacked-out Brussels was eerie. The whole city had a sepulchral feel. No street lights illuminated the intersections. No cheery glow escaped from any of the heavily curtained windows. Papa drove hunched forward over the steering wheel, guiding the Fiat as much by moon glow as by the feeble gleam cast from the shrouded headlamps.

Despite the earlier alarms there was very little traffic in the crooked lanes or on the main thoroughfares. It was as if everyone remained huddled at home, hoping by collective disbelief to turn the news of a German assault into a false alarm. The whole city was waiting...and watching.

Though no one demanded an explanation of the late-night travel, and no one challenged us, I felt the presence of many eyes observing our every turn. Moonlight-induced shadows on row-house fronts turned windows and doorways into eye sockets and gaping mouths. Who lurked behind these wounds in the soul of Brussels?

The stillness of the seemingly deserted city made me feel like screaming... .or telling my father to turn around and drive as fast as possible back home. Only familiar surroundings and comfortable memories could possibly lift the oppression I felt.

Out here in the inky blackness I was convinced Varrick was dead, lying facedown on a canal bank.

But what if that vision was wrong, was false, was wicked? What
if he had escaped...and Jessica's William too? I hastily added to my prayer. What if they had fled alive from the carnage and were even now arriving at the seminary? What if Varrick came for me, and I was not there to greet him? How would he ever find me again?

I was about to suggest all this reasoning to Papa when the next stick of bombs began to fall.

The sirens had not been wrong—merely premature.

Brilliant orange flashes lit up the sky behind them, in the direc
tion of the factories and the warehouses and the rail yards. I clamped
my mouth shut on my doubts. Papa had been right. Whatever fate had already engulfed William and Varrick, it was necessary to get Gina and Jessica and the unborn child out of harm's way.

Suddenly, instead of retreating, I wished Papa would drive faster!

The delayed thunder of distant explosions reached us. Orange light raced across the streets, competing with and then overpowering the moon. New detonations reverberated among the canyons of homes. Crimson fingers in the sky reached out to seize the Fiat and hold back our escape.

Another stick of bombs stitched a row of destruction across the city. Then, unexpectedly, a final flash and a rumble came to me, almost abreast of the auto. Off to the right, much nearer than the rest, a wayward package of ordnance detonated. For an instant the flare silhouetted a church steeple, a familiar pinnacle.

"Papa," I gasped loudly.

"Shh," he insisted. "We're still safe."

"No, Papa," I protested with barely subdued intensity. "I think... that last bomb...I think it was near St. Mary's. What about my girls? What about the school?"

"Loralei," Papa returned, jerking his chin toward the precious human cargo in the rear seat, "how can we...?"

"It's not much out of the way," I argued. "I could never forgive myself. Please, Papa."

He was easily swayed. The children at St. Mary's had already suffered from this war. The three dozen Jewish girls were without families and in great danger from the coming of the Nazis. Downshifting, he guided the Fiat around a corner and aimed the angel atop the radiator cap toward the church and school.

Within three blocks it was clear St Mary's had indeed been struck. A pair of fire engines raced past, bells clanging, the firemen shouting, "Clear the way! The girls' school..."

The chapel had taken a direct hit. The roof had fallen into the interior, as had one end wall.

Half the other wall remained against the skyline. The jagged, semi-circular outline of a shattered rose window suggested an overflowing bowl of suffering and loss.

Hoses snaking across the courtyard and the lanes nearest the school prevented a nearer approach. "Stay with Jessica," I ordered Papa as I jumped from the Fiat, ignoring his words of protest and warning.

I encountered Sister Mary Marcia at the door to the dormitory. As soon as we reached each other the nun fell into my embrace. Together we sank toward the flagstones, kneeling.

Sister Marcia wept.

"Sister," I said urgently, "are you hurt? Are you wounded?"