The Gathering Storm (43 page)

"Lora. I look out at the wide sea and can only think of the color of your eyes, my darling.

cerulean

blue

brush

stroke

me

embellished

hues

you

sigh

desire

lapping

parted

lips

tongues

offire

sing

me

awake

waves

arousing

tranquil

sea

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swelling
breaking
embracing
the shore

My darling girl, you are the one my soul has been search
ing for. I see your smile before me as I write down these words. Remember I told you once you are so beautiful that I would like
to use your face as a model for the Madonna? I remember now
where I saw the likeness: Very much like the face on an angel in the
great rose window of Notre Dame. Beautiful you, my only love.

Eternally yours,

Eben"

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³²

I

did not fear the bombs as long as I was in the presence of Eben. And when we were apart, each of us doing our bit in the war against Hitler, I never feared my own death. I feared only one thing in life: living without Eben.

He had traveled north to deliver a group of Jewish children who had escaped the Nazis by hiding in the hold of a French fishing vessel. I finished a long day attempting to find foster homes for East End children outside of London.

There were four air-raid alarms that day. Smoke and death, brick and mortar dust hovered in the air along with the strong smell of cordite. I prayed that Eben would make it back to our little flat before the blackout.

I made my way home after three hours of detours. The sky seemed brighter and cleaner in Hampstead. I breathed easier. Turning on to Well Walk, I joined a long line of women at the bakery to pick up our rations at the grocer.

There were historical markers all over London and I had never paid much attention. But I glanced up at a marker on a neighboring brick house. For the first time, I noticed a blue plaque.
John Keats, Poet, Resided Here.

I looked at the rippled antique glass set in the tall narrow window like a picture frame hung on aged red brick. For a moment I thought I saw the pale face of Keats gazing back at me.

There was a flash of movement on the tree limb beneath the sill.

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Another nightingale perched there among the branches. If he still lived, Keats could have reached out and touched the bird.

Unbidden I recalled the words to the nightingale that the poet had written, looking out the window of that house.

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...

I remembered how Keats had left the woman he loved and never come back to her. The fear of losing Eben swept over me in that moment. I trembled as the women spoke of friends and family killed or wounded in the latest raids. "Keep their ration books, I tells 'er. Don't do no good for the dead. Keep their ration books and eat the rations what remain when they're gone. Why not?"

Wanting to run away, I inched forward in line, at last presenting my ration book along with Eben's. Receiving our meager portions, I hurried home to Church Row.

From the sidewalk I heard a radio playing. We did not have a radio, but looking up at our window I saw Eben's face smiling down at me. He waved.

"Eben!" I cried.

He thumped his palm against his heart and put a finger to his lips.

Running up the steep stairs I was breathless when I threw myself into his arms. He covered my face with kisses as if our time apart had been weeks instead of hours.

He whispered, "Our anniversary. Four weeks and I haven't longed for any heaven but the heaven I found in your arms."

"Oh, Eben! I was so afraid."

"Afraid?"

"That you wouldn't come home to me."

~ 344 ~

"I'll always come to you. What do you think? I bought us a radio...you didn't notice your anniversary present."

"No. I...only see you."

We closed the blackout curtains early and slow danced as Vera Lynn crooned my favorite song on the BBC.

"That certain night, the night we met,

There was magic in the air,

There were angels dining at the Ritz

And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square..."

The air-raid sirens sounded, awakening me from the contented sleep that followed after a long dance in Eben's embrace. I heard the slamming of doors and the rapid click of heels on the pavement as our neighbors ran for cover.

And then silence.

I turned to look at him, still sleeping. Beautiful dark lashes made his eyes smile even when they were closed.

"Shall we go?" I asked.

Eben's lips moved against my shoulder. "Let's stay."

"You're never afraid."

He opened his eyes. Liquid, shining, so beautiful. "Only when I am not with you."

"So perfect. Can anyone so perfect really be flesh and blood?"

He sat up and stretched. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry. Let's pack our rations and go out on the Heath. Our task tonight is to pray. We must pray like Moses prayed at the battle. We will see our boys knock the Huns out of the sky."

We dressed and packed our food in a basket and headed for our spot at the White Stone Pond. Eben spread a blanket and we lay down as the first rumble of German bombers was greeted by the sweep of searchlights and the crump of British artillery.

~ 345 ~

He watched calmly as the sky battles began. He prayed quietly in Hebrew for God to bless and send warrior angels to protect the British fighter pilots.

Fearless. His face showed no doubt that a greater, unseen battle was unfolding above our heads.

I held his hand. He did not flinch as great explosions rocked the world and incendiaries rained like brimstone on the metropolis.

By the illumination of the fires I recognized Buckingham Palace;
the Houses of Parliament; Westminster Abbey. I began to cry. Eben
continued to pray. He paused, his eyes glinting green and gold in the
terrible light. "Don't be afraid, Lora. England will not fall." Then he wiped my cheek with his thumb and placed my tears on his lips.

"Who are you?" I asked, speaking my questions aloud for the first time. "Eben?"

He smiled enigmatically. "Tomorrow you take the children to Harpenden?"

"Yes."

"I've never showed you where I used to live. Before..."

I asked, "Before Oxford? Before Hampstead?"

"I'll go with you tomorrow. Show you. If the trains from King's Cross are still running."

As he spoke there came an enormous explosion near St. Pan-eras and King's Cross rail stations. Overhead, to the east, a flaming German bomber exploded, its fuselage spiraling away like shooting stars.

Eben watched as the fragments dissolved. "Poor souls," he said. "Poor souls."

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₆

I

breathed a little easier when the twelve refugee children were safely delivered to Highfield Oval in Harpenden. It was not that I expected any to disappear on the brief train journey from London to Hertfordshire, but there had been unfortunate cases. Some of the fostering families had inexplicably gotten cold feet and refused to accept evacuee children when we tried to deliver them. It was agonizing.

This tragedy was unlikely to happen at Highfield Oval, since it had been a National Children's Home since its founding in 1913. Still, it was a relief for me to see a dozen German-Jewish boys and girls comfortably settled into their dormitory rooms and hear Sister Louise exclaim over each one as if greeting long-lost relatives.

Eben Golah accompanied me on this Saturday journey. "Very impressive facility," he remarked.

"I'll keep my fingers crossed to see how well they get on with the other children," I said. "If it works I expect Highfield Oval to accept even more refugees."

"So you never stop worrying about the next placement and the next and the next?" Eben teased.

"Never!" I vowed solemnly. "I lived through only a fraction of what these children have endured, but even so I cannot bear the thought of them being unloved and unwanted one moment longer than necessary."

Eben bowed. "I humbly acknowledge your devotion. But I have to ask: since it is too late today to place any more children, and

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since tomorrow afternoon will certainly be another painful experience...can you not perhaps give your motherly emotions the rest of the afternoon off?"

I thought he was going to suggest a cup of tea or perhaps even a film, but when I asked which he had in mind he replied, "Neither. You asked about my life. I used to live near St. Albans, a long time ago. One train stop away."

So at last Eben was going to give me a glimpse of his past. I had heard of the famous Abbey church of St. Albans. Once I had seen it as my train passed by. It loomed above the surrounding countryside from the mist. I asked the conductor the name of the place, then looked it up in my red
Baedeker's Guide.
But I had never visited it.

The church dedicated to the first British martyr was located at the top of a steep hike up from the station. As we trooped through the crowded market square, Eben did not entertain me with stories of local history, as I expected. When had he lived here? Had he been married at the time?

Along the road he paused to silently gaze upon some building or wall as if it was an old familiar friend. He led me through an almost hidden pedestrian corridor between two buildings. We emerged in the back gardens of the ancient church.

More recent, Victorian-era pinnacles surrounded a lofty central tower of red brick. The church loomed above us. While I was impressed with the present vision, Eben's eyes grew misty with scenes of the past.

"Five hundred feet from end to end," Eben said in a reverent tone. "Second longest in England. The oldest part you can see—the tower there in the middle—was built from red brick rubble before 1100. Beneath that, a Saxon crypt. Below that..." He shrugged.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"It's a hodge-podge," Eben corrected. "Look: Square tower of
red tile. Pointed Gothic windows. Flint-stone walls in the nave. Sold
and almost scrapped in the time of Henry VIII. Restored with those

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elaborate Victorian stone decorations at the far ends just fifty years
ago." He added, in a kinder tone, "This spot has been an object of devo
tion for close to 1800 years. And each succeeding generation expressed
their love of this building in the way that was most meaningful to
them. The entire history of Britain is woven into this building."

I looked at him curiously as he paused. Eben stared at an enormous rose window as if it reminded him of something intensely personal.

"Was St. Albans your church?" I asked. "Your home?"

"I lived there." He gestured down the hill toward a broad expanse
of open field. He began to walk, passing the entrance of the church.

I called after him, "Eben? Aren't we going in?"

He shook his head. "Later. What I have to show you can best be seen from out here."

An expanse of lawn extended down another steep slope to the south of the church. Above us a great hawk spread his wings and circled slowly. In the middle of this greensward was an ancient, gnarled oak. The hawk flew to perch in the branches nearby. It studied Eben with golden eyes. It was to this marker that Eben escorted me, placing me on a low horizontal branch as an impromptu bench.

"Look down the hill," he prompted.

I did so, taking in a creek, and a millrace, and beyond, a green pasture broken up by softly mounded stone walls. "I have the feeling like I used to have as a child when Papa told me a story."