by Bodie Thoene
Considering the loss of lives and the loss of everything else, this seemed a strange, selfish terror. Nevertheless, I frowned and kissed the missive and searched for someplace safe to keep it.
I looked at the tall chest of drawers and remembered Eben kept receipts in a sturdy metal box in his top drawer.
Eagerly, before I drew the blackout curtains, I gathered all his letters and poems, removed the metal box, and opened it on the table.
The last rays of sunlight gleamed through the window and glinted on something bright beneath bits of paper and ration cards.
“What’s this?” I asked as if he was there. Lifting a book of ration stickers, I gasped.
Beneath everything was a familiar envelope inscribed in red ink. The flap was open, revealing a man’s silver cigarette case and a pressed poppy. Where had I seen this before? I removed it and held it up to the light.
The case that was so familiar to me, yet I could not remember where I had seen it last.
Curious, I opened it. A lock of hair and a photograph tumbled out. I read the inscription. I gasped and read it again.
My memory suddenly flooded with the vision of the man without a face who lived at a cemetery in Flanders. I remembered saying to Judah Blood as I read the inscription, “I feel like I’m eavesdropping…”
Could this be the same cigarette case? I knew, somehow, it had to be! How had Judah Blood managed to get it to Eben before Judah slipped beneath the waves at Dunkirk?
Impossible!
But how had Eben come by it?
I stood motionless as the last gleam of daylight faded.
Who was Judah Blood? Who was the man who lived behind the mask in Tyne Cott?
I remembered his hands; the hands of an artist; of a healer; a man dedicated to saving lives and mending broken hearts.
The memory of Judah Blood’s hands on the desk were vivid. Familiar hands.
What had he said to me that day? “I could use your face as a model for the Madonna…”
I sank onto the chair and caressed the box. “Oh Jesus!” I cried. Then I noticed the bottom was false. Removing the contents, I plucked at a leather tab and lifted it.
A blue silk kerchief concealed something about the size and shape of a man’s open palm. I slammed the lid and walked away. If Eben wanted me to know, he would have told me.
I drew the blackout curtains, as if by resisting temptation for a moment, I could overcome my desire to know what this thing was.
Switching on the table lamp beside the bed, I hung back. The light reflected on the cigarette case. The box with its contents, strewn on the table seemed to speak.
Judah Blood at his desk in Tyne Cott.
The bouquet of poppies in the artillery shell vase.
“Loralei Bittick—Kepler. Missus…Varrick Kepler. A happy ending after all…”
Somehow that evening, I resisted the temptation to pull back the blue silk scarf.
I did not yield to my curiosity to discover what, if anything, Eben had kept from me. I replaced the false bottom and then the cigarette case treasure from Tyne Cott, covering the mystery with ration books and receipts.
As the lid snapped shut and I returned it to its place and closed the drawer, I told myself it was nothing; just nothing. I believed that he would tell me what I needed to know about him, if it was important for me.
I fixed myself a fresh pot of tea, filling Mama’s Meissen china teacup with comfort. I pressed my lips on the gold rim and sipped, remembering Mama smiling at me over a cuppa. I suddenly missed her. Terribly. And how I missed Jessica! I wanted to go north to Wales and meet her new beau. I longed to hold the baby. Shalom! Peace! How desperately I wanted to live an ordinary life. I knew that real living was made up of ordinary moments all strung together like the notes on a sheet of music. And in the end of life all those ordinary moments would make one eternal symphony of praise in heaven.
I closed my eyes, savoring the metaphor. I made a mental note to tell Eben all about it when I saw him.
An air-raid siren sounded moments later. I emptied Mama’s teacup and wrapped it up, placing it in my purse. The hurried footsteps of our neighbors tramped down the stairs. The front door opened and slammed shut. Voices called to others as the people of Church Row made their way toward the deep shelter of Hampstead Tube Station.
Only I remained behind. In the far distance I heard the crump of falling bombs. I switched off the light and opened the drapes. Explosions erupted down by the river. The street below me was empty now. Stuffing Eben’s letters and poems into my pockets, I retrieved his metal treasure box and my purse. Carrying these few precious things, I climbed up the steep stairs to the roof of our building.
All around the great metropolis of London, fingers of searchlights frantically combed the sky like the premiere of a Hollywood film. From this highest vantage point I looked down on the city and the river. The flotilla of barrage balloons were caught in the glow. Enemy aircraft moved through the strobe. Explosions of antiaircraft artillery as the Nazis released their deadly cargo.
Fire and light seemed strangely beautiful, like fireworks at the New Year. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament were bathed in a golden glow cast by the conflagration. Warehouses along the Thames as far as Greenwich burned. In the tarnished pewter smoke of the inferno I imagined glimmers of souls rising up to heaven. I began to pray the words of Psalm 91 as Mama had taught me: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee…Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day….”7
I was perfectly calm; ready, no matter what befell me. Peace like a river flowed over me and into me. This peace extended far beyond the absence of fear. It was, rather, the reality of passing through the valley of the shadow of death without any fear of evil.
I set my heart on praying for those I knew were dying. A shell-burst hit near the wing of a sleek silver Nazi plane. Engines sputtered flame. The craft shuddered violently as it passed above the Thames on its desperate route to the sea or perhaps with some hope of landing on the river. I followed its tortuous progress until somewhere beyond the Tower Bridge the sky erupted in a starburst shower. I wondered about the pastor’s son, a boy I had allowed to kiss me on a long ago summer night. Later he had betrayed his faith in Christ and betrayed his father to the Nazi tyrants. His face was clear in my thoughts. He had laughed the night we all sat up by the lake and talked about heaven. He had mocked his younger brother when he mentioned hell as the final destination for Hitler. I remembered his words: “You say this is the truth? What is truth? I say truth is only what you can experience.”
Tonight the end of the world had come for so many. Was tonight the night the boy would experience truth?
Why could I not remember his name? Was the inferno I witnessed in the sky his inferno?
Suddenly I turned away, feeling deeply what a fine line every soul walks between eternal redemption and damnation. Eternity is always just a breath, a heartbeat, away.
The great battle for men’s souls raged all around me. Holding tightly to Eben’s treasure I returned to the stairs. The way down was illuminated momentarily by the dancing shadows of the conflagration. Closing the reinforced door, I was left in complete darkness. Groping for the wall to steady myself, I was two steps down when behind me an enormous blast sounded from the direction of the High Street. I felt a wave of energy and stumbled, holding onto my purse to keep Mama’s precious cup from smashing. Eben’s letterbox tumbled from my hands and clattered down the stairs.
Steadying myself, I paused a long moment before continuing. I was certain the lid had flown open, and the contents were strewn everywhere. I reached into my purse and found my flashlight, switching on the low beam. Amid the litter of receipts and ration cards I spotted the cigarette case at my feet. I retrieved it, scooping up the mess as I descended.
And then I found the blue silk scarf. Beside the scarf, Eben’s secret gazed up at me from the last s
tep.
When the “all-clear” sounded I replaced everything as it had been. I put the box back into its nest among neatly folded socks and underwear.
The kettle boiled, and I made fresh tea. My neighbors tramped back home to a fitful few hours’ sleep.
I could not sleep. Though I knew somehow that I had become a part of a mystery kept for centuries, I sat down and spread Eben’s letters and poems out before me on the table. The puzzle made perfect sense to me now, though I could not truly grasp it. Had my father known?
I reined in my thoughts. What was it the Lord had spoken to my heart this very night? “…ordinary things of life…notes strung together on sheet music…and in the end, in heaven…a beautiful symphony from every righteous act and every righteous life….”
Perhaps I was Eben’s attempt at living an ordinary life? Once again I resolved not to question Eben about his secrets unless he brought up the subject first. I read aloud his poem to me. It was the poem of an artist.
“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
of fire
sing
me
awake
waves
arousing
tranquil
sea
swelling
breaking
embracing
the shore
My darling girl, you are the one my soul has been searching 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”
_____________________
7 verses 7 and 5
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. 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.”
“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.
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. Pancras 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.”
33
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 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.”
