Beneath the Dover Sky

by Murray Pura

  Hartmann Castle, the Rhine River, Germany

  Libby found her sister high up on one of the Hartmann Castle’s battlements, wind blowing her dark hair straight back.

  “How on earth did you get through that door?” Libby asked. “It’s been locked tight ever since we arrived.”

  Catherine was leaning with her arms folded on the parapet and taking in the view of the Rhine River Valley. “To keep the children out. All of the turrets are locked up, but I have the key.”

  Libby stood beside her. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “I agree. I never tire of it. I don’t know which I prefer—Pura or the Rhine.”

  “Fortunately you don’t have to choose. You can have both.”

  Catherine nodded. “I can.”

  “The summer’s almost spent, and we’ve never returned to the conversation we had in Tubingen, Cath.”

  Catherine didn’t reply immediately. She kept looking out over the valley. “Maybe there’s a good reason,” she finally said.

  “What’s the good reason?”

  “I love Albrecht.”

  “I know you love Albrecht.”

  “So there’s nothing more to discuss.”

  Libby folded her arms on the parapet next to Catherine. “So you don’t mind if Terry pops over for a visit?”

  Catherine’s jaw tightened. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Start fights.”

  “If you love Albrecht and don’t have a problem with Terry—”

  “I love Albrecht, and there is no problem with Terry.”

  “Except you love Terry too.”

  Catherine’s face darkened. “I don’t. I can’t.”

  “Oh Cath. Don’t. Can’t. What do they do to help you when you have feelings that frighten you?”

  Catherine put a hand to her face. “Please don’t bring this up. I honestly don’t have answers for you.”

  Libby watched a rolling swarm of blackbirds swirl past the top of the castle. “Soon it will be autumn.” She leaned over and kissed her sister’s head. The wind was blowing Libby’s ginger hair and Catherine’s dark hair about their faces. “If the day ever comes when I want to see Terry, I will not bring him to Tubingen, Pura, or to this castle on the Rhine.”

  Catherine didn’t respond. After a moment she lifted one of her hands off the parapet and grasped Libby’s shoulder.

  “And if a day ever comes when there is much more emotion between Terry and me,” Libby went on, “well, that day is far, far away. Michael still has my heart. But should life happen again with another man, and if that man is Terry, we will not live within a thousand miles of you, my dear. I would not wish to see you in turmoil and pain over things you can’t control or understand.”

  Catherine whispered, “I wouldn’t want that—wouldn’t want you so far away. Please. There’s conflict between Mum and you, and Mum and Dad, and Edward is in his high-and-mighty snit because I married a German and you adopted a girl from a Chinese family. No more rifts.”

  “You’ve been hurt enough in your life, Catherine. I don’t need to add to it.”

  Catherine turned her head and touched her other hand to her sister’s cheek. “You said once you were a big girl. So am I. We’ve both lost so much. I’ve tried to make a new start. You deserve a chance too. How can I stand in the way of something like that?”

  “Just so you understand Terry and I are talking—only talking. There’s no hand of God in this, Cathy. No touch of the divine driving us forward.”

  Catherine smiled crookedly. “You don’t know that.”

  DEAR MUM AND DAD

  WE HAVE A BABY GIRL AS BEAUTIFUL AS SHANNON AND AS BIG AS HER FATHER. NINE POUNDS FOUR OUNCES. BORN ON 3 OF SEPTEMBER. MOTHER DOING FINE BUT IT WAS A LONG DELIVERY. WE HAD TO COAX OUR GIRL OUT. JANE FINALLY HAS A FEMALE COUSIN. WE’VE NAMED HER PATRICIA CLAIRE. SHE REALLY IS LOVELY. WE HOPE TO HAVE FURLOUGH NEXT YEAR SO WE CAN BRING HER TO ENGLAND TO SEE YOU. GOD BLESS AND THANK THE FAMILY FOR THEIR PRAYERS.

  ROBBIE

  Old City, Jerusalem

  Robbie nudged the toe of his boot against the shattered panel of wood. “Tell me what you saw, Sergeant.”

  They both looked as nurses and doctors helped wounded men and women into ambulances. Above the massive stones of the Western Wall, hundreds of Muslim worshipers gazed down from the Dome of the Rock at the splintered wood and wounded bodies and listened to the cries of pain. British soldiers and police were everywhere.

  “Sir.” The sergeant had a strong Scottish accent. “The worshipers here at the Wall—the Jews—they had brought some chairs for the sick and the elderly, which they’ve done before. But they also brought a prayer screen covered in a kind of cloth—this is it here at your feet—so’s men and women could pray together; the screen separating one group from the other.”

  “Who took exception to this?”

  “Well, sir, the sheikhs did so far as I could see. I know they were warning the Jerusalem commissioner who was visiting up on the Rock there. He came and told the rabbi to take the screen down. I overheard that part of it word for word. The rabbi asked if they could leave it up until the prayer service was over. The commissioner, Mr. Keith-Roach, he said that would be fine.”

  “So did they take it down?”

  “They understood from the commissioner they could finish their prayers first. Ten minutes later a great shouting starts: ‘Death! Death! Kill the Jews! Strike down the Jewish dogs!’ ”

  “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.”

  Jeremy’s eyes opened wide behind his glasses. “What did you say, Ben?”

  “Not in the Church of England. That’s beyond me, and my background is Methodist—the Wesleys, you know. Even when I was a stable boy I fancied having a pulpit and saying the good words.”

  Jeremy couldn’t think of a response.

  “It’s always been in my head to go to Africa—to see the jungles and the animals—rhinos and lions and giraffes. I used to think of combining the two—Africa and being a missionary. And now, well, I could fly, couldn’t I? I could be a missionary pilot or something like that?”

  “Have you talked with Victoria about this?”

  “No, not yet. She’d think I was off to prove myself on a grand scale. I wouldn’t act on any of this for another year. But then I’d want to step down from the airline and start to train with the Methodist Church, with an eye to heading to British East Africa and lending a hand in matters of the spirit and everything else.”

  “You’ve never mentioned any of this before, Ben. There hasn’t even been a hint.”