Beneath the Dover Sky (38 page)

“Who was doing that?”

“Muslims on the Rock and others in the streets here.”

“Then what?”

“The prayers were over, but the rabbi didn’t take the screen down immediately. Not sure why. He was tending to other matters, talking with the people who had been praying at the Wall, and so forth. Suddenly the shouting became like screams—bloodcurdling screams—and the commissioner sent in ten or twelve armed men to get ahold of the prayer screen.”

“Armed? Are you sure?”

“Armed, sir.”

“Did the Jews have any weapons?”

“None. They were just ordinary folk.”

Robbie squinted into the light over the Dome of the Rock. “I take it the Jews tried to protect their prayer screen?”

“Aye, sir. It was a sacred object, like.”

“Of course.”

“They fought back, wouldn’t let the men Keith-Roach sent in to take it. So heads were broken. The prayer screen, as you can see for yourself, was torn apart.”

“Was anyone shot?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I thank the good Lord, no.”

Robbie put his hands behind his back. “Very good. I’m grateful for your report. Keep the peace here as best you can.”

The sergeant saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Robbie returned the salute and bent to pick up a fragment of the screen that measured four or five inches across. Several Hebrew letters were carved into the wood. He ran his thumb over them. He stood up and put the broken piece of the prayer screen in the chest pocket of his uniform.

Dear Catherine,

Here I am writing you from Jerusalem, sis. It seems the family is divided between England, Germany, and the Holy Land these days. How are you getting on there in your new life? What does Sean think of it all? A five-year-old like him must be overjoyed at seeing the castle in Tubingen every day and watching custodians polish suits of armor to a gleam. Of course, he’s seen the old castle at Ashton Park, but he was very young when you left there to take up residence at Dover Sky. He can’t remember much of Ashton, I’m sure.

I want to ask after Libby, as well. Please send her my regards
and Shannon’s. I pray things work out between Mum and her, and I’m glad you’ve given Jane and Libby a place to stay until then. How do the two of them like Germany? How are their language lessons coming along? “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” is all I know.

Shannon and Patricia are doing so well. I wish I could say the same about Jerusalem. Things are not so holy in the Holy City. Back in September we had a bad incident at the Western Wall where the Jews pray. Then in October the Grand Mufti, Haj Amin al Husseini, made matters worse by ordering new construction near the Western Wall. He purposely had mules laden with building supplies led through the area while the Jews were praying. The drivers made every effort to ensure the mules dropped their excrement right at the Western Wall. Filthy water was thrown on the Jews as well. Can you imagine how the Muslims would react if that were done to them at the Dome of the Rock?

Now we even have a Muslim holy man, a muezzin, doing the call to prayer just a few steps from the Western Wall precisely when the Jews themselves are praying. I doubt you’ve ever heard an Islamic call to prayer. It is loud and long and stark, a plaintive cry that carries over every other sound. Quite understandably, the Jews are upset at all this.

The Jerusalem commissioner has his hands full. So do we. There are not many of us soldiers. We’re just a token force really—the British Palestine police also have all they can handle. How well the police will handle the unrest I don’t know. They certainly overreacted when the Jews set up a simple prayer screen at the Wall back in September. By last count over 1200 of the police officers are Muslim Arabs. Less than 500 are Christian Arabs, and only about 320 are Jews. I don’t know how evenhanded the justice they mete out is bound to be in 1929.

Listen to me prattle on. A month from Christmas and what sort of good cheer am I bringing you? My purpose in writing is to tell you we had Patricia Claire baptized Roman Catholic shortly after her birth. This was Shannon’s wish, and I felt
no inclination to say nay. After all I was ready to be baptized a Catholic when I was stationed in Ireland years ago. So were you before you and Albrecht patched things up.

Do you ever give a thought to picking up where you left off? I suppose not. Albrecht is Lutheran. I understand the baron is a practicing Catholic, though I doubt that will have any bearing whatsoever on your situation. Well, I wanted to share the news about my baby’s baptism with you because I felt you’d be interested and sympathetic. I’m quite happy about it, but please not a word to Mum and Dad right now! I think that might really drive them ’round the bend.

We’ll certainly send you and Libby and Sean and Jane a few Christmas cards from Jerusalem. I might even get a chance to get down and pick something up from Bethlehem. Some camels and a nativity scene carved out of olive wood perhaps? It’s a lovely wood, and I’m sure the children would love the donkeys, shepherds, magi, and all the other figures that go into the Christmas story. Even sophisticated eleven-year-old Jane might like setting it up.

That’s all for now. Must get this off in the post. Love to all. God bless you in every way during the remaining weeks of 1928.

Cheers,

Robbie

Christmas Eve

Tubingen, Germany

“Catherine?”

“Yes, Albrecht?”

“What do you think of this sentence?” he asked as he came into the library, reading glasses on and hair askew, holding a sheaf of papers covered with typing:

As the Christmas tree was removed from the realm of pagan ritual by Martin Luther and redeemed and made whole to honor the love of God we find in Jesus Christ, so the German heart must also be released from any vestiges of a Nordic pagan past, and be redeemed and made new in Christ, so that a true and spiritual Germany may emerge from our confusion once again.

She closed the book she was leafing through and smiled. “It is a long sentence, love.”

“I know but—”

“Nevertheless, I like what you say and how you bring things together. How will it sound in German?”

His head was down as he reread the sentence to himself. She watched for a moment—the movement of his lips, the shape of his fingers on the sheets of paper, the tangle of his light brown hair, the slender strength of his body. Light and warmth moved swiftly through her as if she’d drank hot tea. She stood up and took the pages from his hands.

“It is Christmas Eve, Albrecht. We have that lovely fir tree from Bavaria downstairs.”

He stared at her. “Yes, of course. But I—”

“Time to put away pens and thinking caps. Time to celebrate the love of God in Jesus Christ you like to write about.”

“Another half hour.” He half-smiled. “It may seem to you that I am obsessive, but we want this essay published to coincide with New Year’s Day. Hitler has been yammering about an economic crisis to try to draw attention back to his political ideas. We cannot ignore him. Membership in the Nazi Party continues to grow.”

“But he still has hardly any seats in the
Reichstag
, correct?”

“That can change with one election. A bad year for Germany, and his party could go from fourteen to fifty or sixty seats overnight. Do you know how many stormtroopers he’s recruited—those thugs of his in brown shirts? We estimate at least 400,000. That’s almost half a million, Catherine! And the Treaty of Versailles restricts the German army to only 100,000 troops. Hitler could take over the government with a snap of his fingers.”

“He won’t, Albrecht. You know he won’t. Hitler’s smart enough to understand he needs far more than half-a-million brutes to govern Germany. He needs the German people behind him. He doesn’t have that. He’ll never have that.”

“You don’t know that for sure. History turns like a weather vane in the wind. One moment east, the next moment north.”

“Albrecht—”

“Just a half hour.”

“Your half hours are hours and your hours are days.” She ran her hands over the sweater on his chest. “I have many confusions about many things, but one thing I have been successful at sorting out is that whatever else I feel, I know I feel great love and affection for you.”

“Do you?”

She removed his glasses and placed them on a table. “I do.” She gently put her lips to his. “No more academics. Or rather, if you must be theological, live out your theology in your marriage. Right now. Right here. The house is empty for a few hours…”

“Catherine—”

“Begin with a kiss. Don’t you find a kiss pleasant?”

“Naturally.”

“Especially mine?”

“Only yours.”

“Ah…” She continued to kiss him. “I’ve found the year difficult in many ways, Albrecht, not least of all because of Mother’s unkindness towards Libby’s daughter and Edward’s hostility towards our relationship. Often I didn’t know what to think or do about anything. But when I look at you and I hear the students singing carols outside our house for their favorite professor—”

“Come, you exaggerate.”

“I realize whatever else may not be settled in my life, I know you are my favorite professor too.”

“Catherine—”

“Albrecht, tomorrow is Christmas. Show me I mean something to you.”

He didn’t speak again. He framed her face in both of his hands even
though his fingertips were smeared with ink from replacing typewriter ribbon. He put his lips against her eyebrows, her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her mouth. She slipped her arms over his back, and her fingers found their way to his soft brown hair.

“I understand so little from one moment to the next,” she said in a quiet voice. “But I understand this.”

15

March–August, 1929

St. Andrew’s Cross Church

Ben peered closely at the stained-glass window depicting Jesus speaking with the centurion. “When was this one made?”

“The 1700s. Early on, I believe, in the history of St. Andrew’s Cross Church.” Jeremy, in his clerical robes and a white collar at his throat, stood behind Ben. “Kipp took a great interest in this particular window as well when he was here for the baptism of Edward’s newborn.”

“Yes. Sorry I missed that. Colm Alexander Danforth. Handsome baby?”

Jeremy smiled. “With his great shock of black hair and brilliant blue eyes he takes after his mother certainly.”

“And now Caroline’s with child, hmm?”

“She is. The baby’s due in the fall.”

“I’ve been flying too much. Vic says I’m trying to prove something.” He walked away from the window and sat in a pew. “We’re back to Ashton Park. I’ll take up the reins in the north, and Kipp will handle the airline in the south. He’ll be doing much the same thing Michael did, dodging back and forth between the airfield and Dover Sky.”

Jeremy sat next to him. “That’s what you wanted to chat about?”

“No, no, actually not. I wanted to thank you again for helping me get back on my feet and up in the clouds. It’s been a great thing…a great blessing.”

“And I got to fly and see you return to your natural element. It was a great blessing for me too.”

“Speaking of natural elements. Well, I was wondering what, ah, what you would think of me…taking holy orders.”