"The orphanage," the deputy minister said slowly. "I'm sorry, General, I was informed that this meeting was in reference to an issue of national importance."
"It is," the general rapped out. "If you consider what the press is going to be writing about you and your work."
The deputy minister's mouth opened and shut a couple of times before finally coming out with, "I see."
"No, you don't. What we need here is the bureaucrat who's been responsible for trying to close down these people's orphanage." That intense gaze turned back toward me. "What was her name again?"
"Tartish," Colin replied for me. "Miss Hillary Tartish."
"That's the one." The general turned back to the official. "Now if I were you, I'd go see if you can find this woman, and let her try to explain exactly what she's been up to."
I TRIED NOT to gloat. Truly I did. But it was hard. Especially when the cameras were rolling, and Hillary Tartish was standing up there, trying to explain why we would not be allowed to ship the three hundred and eleven orphans to families who were eagerly awaiting them. Then I watched as the deputy minister overrode her, just silenced her with a single look, and said that he personally would see to expediting the required paperwork. I could not keep hold of a serious expression, not entirely. My smile kept popping into view. Such as when the cameras showed the deputy minister and the general shaking hands, with Colin and Rachel flanking them, and Miss Tartish backed into the shadows at the far corner of the room.
We were a quiet and happy lot on the way home. The joy carried us into the orphanage, and spread as we told each of the workers in turn. The children were soon running about, scampering from one of us to the other, as though drinking in our smiles and laughter and excited chatter. We tried hard to make them understand, taking a few of the older ones to one side, and in words as simple as we could make them, we described what was about to happen.
It was Henryk, the young man I had last seen seated on the side of Annique's bed, who first comprehended. I saw it happen. He was no longer a boy, not even if in years he could scarcely have been more than fifteen. His face had the hardened features of one forged upon the fires of relentless war. The instant he understood what we were saying, he leaped to his feet. His chair clattered over behind him, but he paid it no mind. His eyes widened as he looked from one of us to the other, searching with searing intensity.
Finally he whispered just one word, "America?"
"Yes." I shivered from the same power that was sending tremors through his spare frame. "That's right. All of you."
With trembling fingers he pushed himself away from the table, and stumbled for the door. We sat there, hearing him speak with one child after another. It was like listening to the gathering of some miraculous storm. Finally the power broke forth, spilling in lightning peals up and down the stairs, through the entire length and breadth of the house. Hundreds of racing feet, with shrill voices singing out one single word, over and over and over.
America.
TWENTY-THREE
The Christmas celebration did not come as a surprise to the children. It could not have. The villagers had decided the festival would be a way to celebrate the children's farewell. But we endured delay after delay in our preparations—first there were problems with the children's papers, then the plane could not come as planned, then the assembly in Indiana requested a bit more time. We spent the time preparing a little pageant for ourselves. It helped to have some amusing distraction to balance against the loss of our little charges. We were excited about how things were working out, but still saddened over this coming change.
The American fliers and their crews became a part of our daily routines, driving up with messages and news and food. Not to mention all the reporters. After the first series of articles appeared, other publications became interested in how a village had supported these children and then received help from the American army air corps, and how we had found three hundred homes for them in America. We cheerfully accepted the extra strain of their company. The more publicity we received, the more pliant the Ministry became. Anything that greased the government's skids was good news.
Finally, finally the day arrived. The tension was so thick the air was hard to breathe. The children reacted by growing solemn. Some understood more than others, but none could fathom why there were arguments among the staff, and tense voices in the hallway as we struggled to give them all baths. The little forms were blue and shivering, since only so much water could be heated on the stoves. Everything became too rushed, scrubbing them dry and trying to sort through the new clothes and have them ready on time.
By then the children knew that they were going to America, or at least they had heard the words. What they understood was that they were going away. Some were excited, most were afraid. Having us become so nervous and flustered did not help things at all.
At last we were as ready as we could be. The children no longer hid when things went wrong—the worst of their fears and wounds were healing. But there were furtive glances and quiet whimpers from the littlest as we herded them into the downstairs chambers and did one last head count.
"Three hundred and nine," said a very breathless Colin. "And I can't find Rachel."
"Two children missing." My heart sank. Annique. She had been one of the last to fall ill, and now was one of the last to get well. I raced up the stairs, almost colliding with Annique as she came out the door. Shyly she smiled at me, without releasing Henryk's hand. I pointed them down the stairs, and asked, "Rachel?"
"In here, my dear." I entered the sickroom, and found the older woman standing by the door. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was smiling slightly as she stared out over the room. "We have reached a watershed," she declared quietly.
The long rows of rolled-up mattresses stood as a testimony to days and nights of worry, hard work, and finally of success. The emptiness was sad, and yet one of the most satisfying sights I had ever seen. "I will miss them," I confessed.
"Oh, I was not speaking of the children," Rachel replied. "I suppose it is true with the children as well, although I personally can only see everything that is still left to be done." She turned to smile at me. "I was speaking of us, my dear. I owe you my heartfelt thanks."
"Me? What did I do?"
"You were the catalyst." Rachel enfolded me in her arms. "In the midst of your darkness, you allowed God to work through you. And look at the wonders the Lord has wrought in my own heart!"
THE VILLAGE HAD done the children proud.
The sun shone from a pristine blue sky upon our motley parade. Slowly we wound down the long hill from the orphanage to the river. The village's three buses had been pulled from their regular routes, and they led the retinue. Following them were the dairy's four milk vans, the backs emptied to make room for children. After them came nine hay wagons from local farms, two grocers' delivery trucks, the plumber's van, the sixteen private cars that had enough petrol for the journey, and Fred's taxi with its enormous black gas bag.
We chugged down the village High Street, encircled the little plaza before the Town Hall, and stopped with backfires and clouds of black smoke.
There was an instant of total silence, broken by a single whimper by one of the smaller children. They packed every square inch of the long array of vehicles. Moon-shaped eyes stared in utter bafflement at the hundreds of villagers lining the sidewalks and the town square. Then the bandleader raised his baton, and the village band broke into a vigorous tune of welcome.
That broke the ice. As we started to help the littlest children out of the transport, the villagers spilled toward us in a happy, chattering stream.
The children reacted by trying to hide behind our skirts. But there were not enough of us, and too many of the townsfolk.
Soon the plaza and the lane leading across to the church were full of milling, scrambling bodies. Local children led a group of the orphans, most of whom could not understand a word of what was being said, racing through the
churchyard. The old vicar, a fussy gentleman who was delighted to leave most of the town duties to Colin, grew red in the face trying to shoo them off the old gravesites.
The villagers had dug out old Christmas bunting from some long-forgotten fete, and strung it from everything that would hold still. Many of the doors up and down the High Street were festooned with holly wreaths. The American servicemen had set up a table where they were doling out orange slices and chocolates to the children. An excited storm of kids raced around, with sticky chocolate goo smeared over their faces.
The road to the bridge had been closed and all traffic diverted, so that a veritable feast could be laid out on trestle tables down the High Street. Much of the required funds had come from what was left of the Ministry's account. The army had given us a great deal, and the rest had come from various families. Everyone had brought something. After the weeks of hardship and scrounging, all that food set proudly down the center of the tables was very difficult to take in.
Every table had its own goose, roasted to a crisp golden brown and garnished with all sorts of hard-to-find fruit. There were hams and boiled eggs and three kinds of potatoes and a half-dozen vegetables. For dessert, heaps of good Christmas pudding wafted ginger and spices into the sunny air.
Our children were reluctant to sit down. They had difficulty believing that this feast was meant for them. Warily they circled the tables, staring round-eyed at all that wonderful food.
Finally we took some of the smaller ones by the hands, and settled them in place, and prepared plates for them. By each setting was a little paper crown, something found at every family Christmas dinner in England. As the children tried them on, some of the crowns slipped right over their ears and settled on their shoulders. All the crowd laughed at that. The older children watched with caution, until finally they grasped that they could have as much of everything as they liked. They scrambled for places and plates, then ate and laughed and chattered and ate.
For a while the adults remained silent, caught up in the miracle of the moment. We smiled and watched and shared in a time so full of joy and completion that there was little room for words.
Then the moment flowed on, and suddenly we were all talking and laughing, reaching across the table, passing the bowls and platters up and down. The band played tune after tune. When I felt I would burst if I took another bite, I rose from the table, only to find myself facing a shyly smiling Annique. She motioned with her arms, and I understood that she wanted to dance with me.
Together we walked over in front of the bandstand, where a few of the children were circling about in a laughing little ring. We clasped our arms and stepped to the lively tune, and I felt my face rise in the biggest smile I had ever known. There was so much joy in Annique's dark eyes, so much youth and newfound hope. I felt healed by the thought that I had had something to do with this young girl's blossoming. I felt renewed.
When the band stopped, I was startled by the sound of all the villagers clapping and shouting. Annique's hands flew up to cover her mouth, as we both realized they were clapping at us. My face turned crimson, and I felt an urge to run and hide.
But before my legs could carry me a single step, it seemed as though all the village had come out to j o in us on the makeshift dance floor. Annique was swept away by a grinning Henryk. I found myself hugging total strangers and laughing at jokes that were all but swept away by the surrounding noise. I watched the grocer's wife dancing with great gusto, pausing every now and then to check the seams of the stockings I had given her. And over at the corner of the crowd I spotted one of the Grim Brigade, only now she was tapping her toe and smiling slightly, or at least she did until she caught herself, then she stiffened and drew herself up straighter.
I danced with Brad and Bob and people I did not recognize, passed from hand to hand around the floor, until I finally arrived before Colin. There was something in his eyes, a new soft light, which left my heart squeezed with a joy and an anticipation unlike anything I had ever known before.
He reached into his pocket and handed me a brightly wrapped package. "Merry Christmas, Emily."
I was reluctant to take it. "Colin, you shouldn't—"
"To make up for what you lost," he said, then stopped in midflow as a blush rose from his collar to turn his face crimson. "That is, I wanted to get you something."
His dark vicar's suit was shiny with wear, and the cuff of the arm holding out the gift was frayed. I found myself swallowing a lump in my throat before I could manage, "This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me."
"You don't even know what it is yet."
"That doesn't matter." I accepted the gift, unwrapped the small bottle of perfume, and gave him a smile from the depths of a very full heart. "I will treasure this always, Colin. This and everything behind it. Thank you so much."
Then it was the most natural thing in the world to reach out and embrace him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, not caring who saw me or what they said. Not then. I felt Colin hesitate, then relax and return my embrace. His arms felt so strong. So good and so solid and so right.
Finally we released one another and shared a quiet intimate smile. Then we began the process of herding everyone into the church.
There were nowhere near enough seats for everyone, but the grand old structure had volumes of room in the alcoves and crannies. As I helped gather the orphanage's little choir at the front, I could not keep them from turning and staring at the Christmas tree and the sign that hung high overhead.
Colin and the local schoolmistress had designed a huge Christmas card, which the village school had then painted for the orphans. With silver angels blowing trumpets from the two top corners, towering letters shouted out the message, To Us a Savior Is Born. The words had been translated into Russian, Polish, German, Czech, Romanian, and Hungarian. We had to stop and let the children laugh and point and read out the words, before we could finally turn them around, focus their attention upon Rachel with her little baton, and start them singing.
When those bell-like voices rang out with "Joy to the World," I thought my heart would positively burst.
TWENTY-FOUR
The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time Gran stopped talking. Marissa stayed seated by the window, trying not to search the front yard every thirty seconds. The silence was pleasant, complete. They had shared something that went far beyond the story and the words.
Finally Marissa said, "So you and Granpa got married and lived happily ever after."
"Something like that," Gran said, smiling at her. It was not the smile Marissa remembered from before the funeral. This was something new. There was a joining of the soft and welcoming way she had been before Granpa's death with a new depth, a different wisdom. "Colin took quite a while to recover from his illness. I kept postponing my own departure, using his sickness as an excuse. My parents wrote every week, pressing me to set a date for my return. One day, Colin declared it was time to stop pretending he wasn't well in order to keep me from leaving England."
Marissa risked another glance through the front window. The driveway remained as empty as the last time she looked. "And then?"
"Then he proposed to me. And I accepted. Three weeks later, while I was still trying to write the letter telling my parents I wasn't coming home after all, Colin received a letter of his own. The former chaplain of the Arden airbase had become friends with Colin. He had gone home to America and suffered a stroke. He was writing to ask Colin if he would come over and help out.
"Colin's folks were long gone, he was an only child, and did not have any close relatives. The villagers were sorry to see us go, of course, but I was ready to go home. We said it would be just for a year or so, but the Philadelphia church asked Colin to stay on, and we did. And every summer we would go out and visit with our friends in Indiana, and we watched them grow into wonderful adults with families of their own."
"It's a wonderful story, Gran." Marissa tried to put as much feeling as sh
e could into her words. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
"You're welcome, child." Gran cocked her head to one side. "Now can you please tell me why you're either watching the clock or staring out the window?"
"Nothing," Marissa sighed. Two hours late. She felt as if she had been waiting there for years.
"Well, I must say it is wonderful to see you so dressed up." Gran cast an admiring glance over Marissa's freshly washed hair and her white pullover and red plaid skirt. "If I didn't know better, I would say you were completely healed."
"I am much better." She would not try to mask the truth. Not from Gran. Not after everything they had shared. "I just wish I didn't feel so weak."
"That will pass." At the sound of scrunching gravel, Gran raised up to peer over Marissa's shoulder. "Who on earth is that pulling into my drive?"
Marissa looked and squealed and leaped up. "They've come!"
Gran followed her toward the front door. "Who, child?"
"Your Christmas present!" Marissa flung back the door, and waved with both hands over her head as the car flashed its headlights toward her.
Gran joined her at the window and watched the car doors open and two figures tumble out. Laughing, shouting, waving and running down the front walk. "What in heaven's name . . . "
"Merry Christmas!" A dark-haired woman with shimmering black eyes came racing up. She enveloped a tremendously startled Gran in a warm embrace. "Oooh, Andiel Emily, it is so wonderful to see you!"
"We're late, sorry, sorry." The man was tall and square-jawed, and had never lost the last traces of his accent. "But the Indianapolis airport was crazy with snow and people." He reached out his arms, and gave a smile that twisted Marissa's heart. "Hello, Emily. How are you?"
Gran released the dark-haired woman only so she could step toward the man. "Henryk, is it really you?"
"It is indeed." He winked at Marissa over Gran's shoulder. "Hello, my newfound friend."
The woman with the sparkling dark eyes stepped toward Marissa. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Tidings of Comfort and Joy Page 17
