Tidings of Comfort and Joy (20 page)
The news seemed to catch Brad flatfooted. "A berth?"
"A cabin. But with Colin doing so poorly, and the orphanage . . . " I had to stop and force another breath around the fist clenching my chest. "I was wondering if your church was still interested in taking a couple of our orphans."
"My church." Brad's voice slowed to a crawl. "A couple."
"You told me they might be willing to adopt them." I felt like I was pushing against an unseen wall. "This is a way to get them to America, don't you see?"
"Emily . . . " He seemed utterly at a loss for words. "I haven't . . . I mean, it's not yet . . ."
"I understand," I said, and I did. In a flash of insight, I felt as though the message was being scrolled across my heart. "Sorry to bother you."
"Emily, wait—"
I hung up the phone, and lifted my gaze to Mabel. I understood now. This was
my
decision. There was no way around it, nor anything to take its place. I took the hardest breath of my entire life, and said quietly, "I'm sorry, I can't go. Not now. Too many people are counting on me."
"But, my dear—"
"Mabel, I have to see this through to the end. I have to." My resolve was too weak to listen to her protests. I rose to my feet and started for the door. "Ask them if they will transfer the place to a later boat. It can't hurt. And if they can't," I opened the door, hesitated a moment, and finished weakly, "then they can't. And thank you."
I took a few steps down the sidewalk, scarcely believing what I had just done. Yet as I walked, the sadness and regret I expected to hit me never arrived. Instead, I felt light, as though an unseen burden had been taken from me. Something so much a part of me that I had not even noticed its presence, until it was no longer there.
Everyone said it was my idea. But that was not true, well, not really. I didn't wish to be held responsible for something I had never really even meant to say.
The next day, we were at the entrance by the orphanage kitchen, unloading a horsecart full of eggs and milk. Rachel was standing alongside the front wheel, holding the horse's reins and chattering with the farmwife. "I have never seen anything quite like it," Rachel was saying.
"The village has done been cut in two," the farmwife agreed, handing me down another crate with straw-packed eggs. "Them that's glad to see the back of these little ones were ahead for a time. Dancing about they were, acting like they'd seen it coming."
"Not anymore," Rachel said, patting the pony's flank. "Watching those people who haven't lifted a finger gloat so, well, it certainly lit a fire under the others."
"Not half," the woman agreed. She was a spindly thing, all wiry muscle and easy strength. Her hands had broadened and flattened with years of hard work, and her face beneath the winter bonnet was chapped and toughened. But her smile was brilliant, and her eyes clearest blue. "Heard more'n a little grumbling these past weeks. All dried up now, it has. Folks didn't know how much these kittens meant to the town, not until it's come time to see them off."
"People I've not spoken to before have been coming up to me," Rachel went on, "asking if there isn't something they could do to save the children from the DP camps."
"Shame they didn't ask that a while back," the woman said, handing down the last of the milk tins. She straightened and looked around the empty cart. "Hard to believe this'll almost be my last delivery."
"Oh, don't say that," Rachel cried. "You'll have me all weepy again, and that won't do the children a bit of good."
"They know something's up," I agreed. "I can see some of the old shadows coming back."
"Not much we can do about that," the farmwife said in her practical no-nonsense manner. "Still, I'll be sorry to see the tykes go. Strange how giving to this lot has left me feeling so rich."
"Oh, that reminds me." I raced past the women stacking produce in our larder, and pulled the cash box off the top shelf. I came back outside. "My memory has been like a sieve lately."
"As hard as you've been running," Rachel responded, "it's a miracle you can remember your own name."
The farmwife's eyes widened as she watched me extract a wad of bills. "What you got there, now?"
"The Ministry finally came through with some funds," I said, and could not keep the bitterness from my voice. "I got a call from the bank yesterday afternoon."
"She was up half the night, trying to bring our books up to date," Rachel added, shaking her head. "If she doesn't watch out, we'll have her laid out there alongside Colin."
I counted out the money, and handed it over. "We can't thank you enough for all you've done."
The farmwife looked wondrously at the bills in her hand, and then back at me. "You're paying me?"
"I had to make a guess," I told the farmwife. " Y o u stopped leaving chits a few weeks ago. But I think that's pretty close."
"Wait till my Bert hears about this." She stuffed the notes in a pocket, and slowly shook her head. "Never thought I'd see the day come when I'd be sad to get paid."
"You're not alone," Rachel said. "I took the money by the grocer's this morning. His wife actually broke down and wept. Said it hadn't seemed that the children were actually leaving until right then."
"Everybody's talking about how they'd like to do something," the woman said. "Just wish we knew what."
For some reason, I found myself thinking back to the day I had stood in line at the grocer's, looking at the magazine and staring into those children's eyes. And how I had been unable to understand the message that was whispered to my heart. I closed the cash box and turned around, saying as I passed through the doorway, "We could always give them a Christmas."
I set the cash box back in place, then returned outside, only to find the two women standing there, staring openmouthed at me. Finally Rachel said, "What did you just say?"
"I suppose it is silly," I said, ashamed now that I had spoken at all. "It's just, well, the other day Colin was telling me how sad everyone had been at Christmas. And how nothing was done for the children."
"A village Christmas," the farmwife murmured.
"But it's the middle of February," Rachel protested.
"Aye, so it is." The farmwife reached down and took the reins from Rachel's hands. "And what difference does that make, I ask you?"
She settled into the wagon's seat, clicked to the horses, and said, "I'll be having a word with my Bert over this."
"A CHRISTMAS FOR the children." Colin beamed at me. "Emily, it's a positively splendid idea."
"It wasn't an idea, not really. Just something that sort of popped out."
"Well, it's just as well you don't wish to lay claim." Colin watched as I moved about his little kitchen. "It's the village's idea now. I've had a half-dozen people stop by to describe what they want to do, or have done, or organize, or help put together. Almost as though everyone has been waiting for just this way to put their feelings into action."
I didn't know what to say. Colin was seated at his kitchen table, watching as I heated up a supper brought back from the orphanage. I had taken to having my dinner there, checking on him before night settled in, and going over what I would need to do on the morrow. I found myself looking forward to these times alone together. Occasionally during those busy days I would find I had stopped whatever I was doing, just thinking about him and something he had said, or the way he smiled, and the thought would warm me.
He was up and walking about now, and his color had steadily improved. But he remained too weak for the doctor to allow him back to his duties at the orphanage, something that chafed mightily. But in these quiet secret moments, I was glad in a way that he still needed my care. Even though taking over his chores tired me so, and despite my worries over his heart, I was glad for how this had brought us together in such a special way.
I pointed out, "The children won't understand what's going on. Or that it's supposed to be a Christmas party."
"Oh, they might, you know. We can easily afford to hire an interpreter for the day, now that the Ministry has finally come through." His smile turned mischievous. "I can see no reason not to spend a bit of the leftover funds on a little feast. Besides which, the older ones are making progress with their English. They'll understand enough to know that all is well."
I set the plate down in front of him, but he continued to stare up at me. "That is the essential message of Christmas, wouldn't you agree?" Colin's smile warmed me to my very core. "For those who accept God's gift, all is well."
When Marissa came downstairs the next morning, Christmas was there to greet her.
"Ooooh." She walked into the living room, where brightly wrapped presents were spread out around a tree with its cheerfully blinking lights. Silver streamers caught the fire's glow and transformed the tree into a greenand-gold beacon.
Her grandmother came up behind her, set down the two steaming mugs of cocoa, and gave her a warm hug. "Merry Christmas, darling."
"Merry Christmas, Gran." Marissa could not help glancing at the mantel clock over her grandmother's shoulder. "I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a little while for your present though."
The hug tightened. "Child, I am holding the best present I could possibly ask for."
She stood there, wrapped in her grandmother's arms, feeling that they were both different people from those who had come together just a few short days ago. It was not just Marissa who had been changed, at least not in her own eyes. Her grandmother had become more than just an older relative. She was now a woman with experiences and wisdom all her own.
Sharing these gifts of a life that was Gran's and Gran's alone had eased away some of the harsh lines that had creased her face since Granpa's funeral. Somehow, the act of sharing was changing Gran as well. The thought warmed Marissa right down to her toes.
It was only the phone's ringing that opened Gran's arms. "That will be your mother."
Marissa accepted the phone and spoke with each of her family in turn, wishing them all a Merry Christmas, trying to put as much heart as she could in the words. Pretending to be excited over what her brothers received came easy; all she had to do was direct her impatient ferment in their direction. When she set down the phone, she glanced at the clock once again, and released a sigh. It was going to be a long three hours.
Gran misunderstood her sigh. "You mustn't be sad, child. The distance between us and them really isn't that great. Here in our hearts, they are with us still."
"I know," she said, not correcting her grandmother. In any case, Gran was partly right. "But could we wait a little while before we open our presents?"
"If you like." A small smile played over Gran's features. "What should we do in the meantime?"
Marissa grinned. "You know exactly what I want to do."
"Well, I suppose I should make you some breakfast while we talk." Gran rose to her feet. "Are you tired of oatmeal yet?"
That final week before the children were scheduled to be farmed out to camps passed in a continuous blur. I worked until I could work no longer, then fell into my bed, sometimes not even bothering to undress. The village was a hive of activity.
There were delegations of every make and model, from farmers to housewives to the entire village council, all traveling to London to beseech the Ministry to let the orphanage stay open. The thought of our children being dispatched to an array of nameless DP camps left everyone distraught. But nothing did any good. I could tell whenever someone had just returned from London, for they walked with shoulders slumped and face turned down. It was a very hard time for us all.
Perhaps because of that, people poured an enormous amount of energy into preparing for the Christmas fete, scheduled for the day before the first buses would arrive to transport children to the camps.
Colin remained too weak to return to the orphanage. But there was nothing we could do to keep him from helping around the village. Nor did we try. It was an important activity for all of us. We took strength from seeing the preparations take shape, and from being able to talk about the fete. It took the edge off what otherwise would have been an unbearable tragedy.
Then came the day. There have been a number of special moments in this life of mine. But this was
the day.
From the very outset, it was a time set apart, an instant lifted up by God's heavenly angels. That is the way I saw it, even at first light, when I rose from my bed and stepped out onto my little balcony to watch the river flow silent and strong. As I stood there, drinking in the early morning light, I heard the most remarkable sound, a whooshing prism of musical tones. It sounded as though angels were humming in unison. I turned in time to see six white swans come sailing by, their outstretched wings catching the still air and making it sing in their passage.
I had taken to reading the Gospels with my first cup of tea, a time of quiet shared with my Lord. Usually it was the only peaceful moment of my entire day. That morning, I read about the poor woman who shamefully tossed her two tiny coins into the temple's coffers, and how the Lord had blessed her for giving out of her poverty.
I sat and sipped my steaming cup, and thought of this quiet little village and how they had struggled to make room for the children. How they had never asked for recognition or thanks, how they had scarcely had enough for themselves. How their own hearts were seared and scarred by wounds and loss. Yet even so, they had given what love they had, and in so doing had offered me the grace of both healing and newfound wisdom.
I read no more that day.
I PUT ON my coat and scarf, and went downstairs, where I discovered a letter peeking through the mail slot. There were quite a few letters these days—from my family mostly, but also from friends back home who had heard of my sadness and offered the only comfort they could. So I was already out on the lane and halfway to Rachel's door before I glanced down at the envelope, and recognized the handwriting. A bolt of lightning could not have struck me harder.