The Gathering Storm (6 page)

Herr Schmidt meant the question rhetorically and as a joke, but he paused and looked around the room as if someone might respond affirmatively.

In that moment, Varrick pounced. Slowly raising his hand from his place in the back row, he cleared his throat so Herr Schmidt and the whole class would know.

"A funny man," Herr Schmidt replied, and a few students laughed nervously.

But Varrick did not put his hand down.

Herr Schmidt glared at him. "Do you mean to say, Varrick, that you would prefer to be a mindless, inferior Negro, so long as you could win foot-races?"

Varrick inhaled deeply as he rose from his seat to respond. Before then I had not noticed how tall he was.

"Do
you
mean to say, Herr Schmidt, that there has never been a Negro who contributed anything of intellectual value to the world?" Varrick's eyes flashed defiantly.

"I certainly can think of none, can you?" Herr Schmidt had not finished his question before Varrick began his response.

"Benjamin Banneker, 1731 to 1806, accurately predicted solar and
lunar eclipses based on his own calculations, and published them in almanacs. Lewis Latimer, 1848 to 1928, made significant improve
ments to electric lights. Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, 1856 to 1931, per
formed the world s first open-heart surgery. Garrett Morgan, born 1877, invented the gas-mask. George Washington Carver..."

The list had been uttered so quickly and so calmly, that at first
Herr Schmidt was too stunned to respond. Finally, in sneering reference to Varrick's heritage, he shouted, "And what has a single dirty Jew given us?"

Varrick's face drained of color. He stood, silent and staring, white knuckles on clenched fists. I knew he was fighting an intense battle within himself: whether or not to beat Herr Schmidt to a pulp in front of the class.

Schmidt turned his back on Varrick, picked up a piece of chalk, and began writing on the blackboard. The rest of our classmates remained facing backward in their seats. All eyes were fixed on Varrick as he inhaled raggedly and sank to his seat. His hands, now unclenched, shook slightly as he busied himself tidying a small stack of paper and a pencil at his desk.

As students turned their attention once again to the front, Herr Schmidt resumed his lecture. "Margaret Sanger," he barked, underlining her name on the board, "is perhaps the most notable
scientist
in the field of Malthusian Eugenics. It is her contention that the suffering of the Negro through hunger and poverty could be much reduced by affording them access to birth control and sterilization. . .a position very much in concert with Chancellor Hitler's own views. In fact, she has established, in a primarily Negro population center, an office of her American Birth Control League."

This reference to Margaret Sanger, an American who endorsed Hitler's racial policies, was aimed at me.

I suffered silently through the remainder of the class.
Outside, I couldn't wait to congratulate Varrick.

"The
look."
I laughed, giddy with the memory, as we passed the crumbling complex of an abandoned dairy farm. "Oh Varrick, did you see the look on his face?"

"I lost" came the sullen reply.

I stopped and grabbed his arm, turning him toward me. Only then did I see angry tears hanging beneath both of his eyes. "What do you mean, Varrick? That was wonderful! You gave him all those names, those facts, that
prove
how ridiculous—"

"But I couldn't give him one of my own!" He pulled his arm from
my hand. "I could have known he would insult me when he had no answer, but I said nothing. Lora, I dreamed of saying those things when Herr Schmidt first described this lesson at the beginning of term. I knew that when he brought it up again, I would be ready for him. But I wasn't. It was the
way
he attacked! In that moment I had not even one example in my mind of one of my own people who had contributed anything meaningful to civilized society. And the way he phrased the question, what could I say? Would the salvation
of our Lord Jesus be a good example of something 'a dirty Jew' gave
the world? But I couldn't even think to say that! I lost."

As he turned from me and wiped his eyes with his forearm, I stepped around to keep in front of him. "Varrick."

He turned away again.

"Varrick."

I stepped again; he turned again, I stepped again, and we shared a little laugh before resuming a slower pace. Varrick walked me home nearly every day, though he lived quite the opposite direction. We continued awhile in silence, but I knew I had to make him understand how brave he'd been, especially in my eyes. "You did
not
lose. Anyway, that was not a
debate;
it was a personal insult. The fact Herr Schmidt had to resort to such a childish response means you
won!"

"But knowing I'm right is not the same as
showing
I am, in front of people who might otherwise believe such stupidity," he said sternly. He was very earnest then: "Lora, things will only get worse. If I...if
we
are not prepared for
everything
to come, this lunacy will continue until...I don't know what will happen. I just know that they're very bad people, the ones who make these claims based on
science,
and they will use gullible people to do unspeakable things if we don't all know how to speak up."

It was as if the devil himself wanted to prove Varrick's point to me. Just then four of the boys from our class stepped around a cor
ner as we approached it. It was Webber and Wilmar, the tow-headed
Funk twins, and two new boys who'd only just come to Reinhard Heydrich the week before.

'"Tag," Wilmar said, nodding. Webber repeated the greeting, though quieter, with a nervous chuckle. The other two boys said nothing, but they fanned out to form a semi-circle around Varrick and me.

At first I didn't realize their intention, so I returned their salutation, "Good day."

Varrick stepped forward and guided me behind him with a sweep of his arm. "Come, Lora, your father will be looking for us. We should get back to school before he sets out this way to find us."

"My father?" I repeated dumbly. But as I looked around Varrick's arm and saw the sneering faces of the other boys, I suddenly knew what he had already realized.

"One more lie to tell?" Wilmar said, his voice eerily high and wavering with nervousness...or excitement. "Dirty, lying Jew. We know you walk this way every day. There is no one coming for you at school."

Webber mouthed quietly, "Dirty Jew."

"Just like the lies you told in class today," one of the new boys shouted, circling farther to our left. "Trying to make Herr Schmidt look foolish."

"Trying to make Herr
Hitler
look foolish," the other corrected, moving to our right.

"Please," I said, "we don't want a fight."

Wilmar sneered. "Funny thing that those who cannot win a fight are always first to say they don't want one."

Varrick and I had, to this moment, been stepping backward almost in unison, as the boys widened their circle around us. Now Varrick stopped, set his jaw, and squared his shoulders. "I will fight any
one
of you and win," he said, "but that is not your plan, is it?"

From three sides they rushed at him then, the impact knocking me to the ground as well. I scrambled upright, yelling at them
to stop, as Varrick fought a losing battle to free himself from the heap of attackers piled on top of him. The twins got to their feet and kicked him as the other two threw punches from atop his chest and legs.

It was as though I were seeing the whole event from another place. I could hear my own screams and the thuds of their fists and
feet against his head and body. I saw the spurt of blood from the flesh
of Varrick's forehead as the heel of Wilmar's boot opened a gash.

For his part, Varrick made no sound. The assailants grunted and panted with the effort of the beating, but the only noise that came from Varrick was his hair brushing the dirt and gravel beneath him as he turned his head from side to side in a futile effort to avoid their blows.

A small pebble bounced toward me from the scuffle, and I sud
denly knew how I could help. I looked quickly around for a rock big
enough to wield as a weapon. At the base of the wall of the dilapidated dairy building a chunk of masonry with jagged edges on one side seemed to glow bone-white atop the brown dirt of the road.

Rushing to retrieve the rock, I began swinging wildly. The first of my flailing efforts missed completely but rustled Webber's hair. The next blow connected with his skull, and he crumpled at my feet.

I repeated the strike at the boy sitting on Varrick's chest, and he yelped like a wounded dog and jumped away, wincing and rubbing his ear. That movement freed Varrick's arms, and he snagged Wilmar's boot in his hands and twisted it violently. Wilmar had to roll away from Varrick and to his knees to avoid having his ankle snapped.

I hit Wilmar next, and he collapsed next to his brother.

Varrick, sitting up now, delivered a single square blow to the boy
still atop his legs. With a distinct crack, the adversary's nose disappeared in a torrent of blood, and he screamed and fell backward.

The second boy I'd hit was considering re-entering the fray, but I bared my teeth, growled, and menaced him with the bloody rock.

He and his friend ran then, leaving the unconscious Funk twins at our mercy. But it was not mercy that spared them my wrath…

Varrick slumped to his elbows, and I ran to him. His face was a mess—lips swollen and cut, eyes puffing shut. A horizontal gash extended from the outside edge of his left eyebrow to the center of his forehead, painting the whole side of his face with a thick sheet of blood. His cheek was swirled brown where it had mixed with the dust and debris from the road.

His starched white shirt had pulled from his waist during the fight, baring his stomach and ribs. His body already showed the first signs of bruising from the punches landed there.

As I helped him to his feet, he still made no noise, no tears, nor any complaints of pain. That was the moment I realized what an incredible man he was. He had no fear of physical pain, though I knew his must be unbearable. Yet he had cried real tears for being unable to make a better defense of what was right.

He leaned against my shoulder, and I helped him walk to my home for my mama, who was a nurse, to tend. Varrick Kepler was a young man I admired immensely.

It was in the weeks following Varrick s afterschool encounter with the bullies that I began to understand how dangerous life in Germany had become for adults as well.

It was a blustery night in Berlin, about a week before Christmas.
A howling wind gleefully flung handfuls of sleet against the upper-story windows of our home. No doubt the furnace in our basement was doing its best, but it could not keep chilling drafts from exploring every hallway and rushing down the back of my neck when I shifted position. I was unconsciously holding my breath, but when
I finally gasped for air, what I inhaled was a combination of the crisp
scent of pine boughs, the reek of coal smoke, the familiar mustiness of the old parsonage...and danger.

I was not supposed to be listening to the conversation taking place in our parlor. I lay out of sight, on a stair landing one floor above. The hour was late, and the gathering supposedly secret to all but my father and mother.

No such secret could ever be kept around our house for long.
From early that morning my father and mother had engaged in whis
pered conferences. There had been hasty knocks on our front door. My father had accepted cryptic notes passed by messengers with pulled-down hat brims and turned-up coat collars. These and other signals combined to involve me in the conspiracy, invited or not.

Besides, I knew all of the participants by their voices. Along with my father's resonant baritone, I recognized the deeper register of my uncle Theo—his sentences punctuated by dry, barking coughs from the cold he couldn't shake, to which he habitually added, "Pardon me."

I also knew Pastor Bonhoeffer's voice. If my father spoke as an ocean liner moves, forging ahead with deliberate, reasoned speed,
Pastor Bonhoeffer's inflection was a sailing ship, swooping in grace
ful lines before tacking abruptly to bring a whole new perspective into a discussion.

"It is only a matter of time before my seminary is closed," Bon-hoeffer said. "The Reich will not tolerate our opposition much longer. Reichsbishop Mueller is on the offensive again."

"I have always found him offensive," Papa growled.

Pastor Bonhoeffer spoke as a founding member of the Confessing Church—the organization of Protestant pastors who denounced the official German evangelical church for becoming one more arm of the Nazi party.