The Gathering Storm Read online

  “Sure.” Jessica searched my expression, knowing my heart.

  I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor beside her and watched as she cradled the baby in her arms. The infant snuffled and turned his face instinctively toward her breast. We grinned in delight as he latched on with a sudden tug.

  “Whoa!” Jessica laughed as the baby slurped noisily.

  “Impeccable table manners. He’s not going to let even one drop escape.” I tenderly observed the infant’s perfection. “What are you going to name him?”

  “I’ve been giving that lots of thought,” Jessica said. “You know I didn’t think I wanted a boy…a boy who would be sent off to war someday like his father. So I’ve decided to call him Nathan Shalom.”

  “I like it: ‘God gives peace.’”

  “Yes, it’s a prayer. Every time I say his name, it’s a prayer.”

  “Mama would like it, Jessica.”

  “Hmm.” Her smile wavered, and I knew she was thinking of William. Jessica stroked the velvet cheek. “If only William could have…”

  “Don’t you think he did see him? You know, the great cloud of witnesses?”

  Jessica kissed the baby. “Your daddy is so proud.”

  “He’s beautiful. And you’re amazing. Hike as long as a soldier. Carry weight like a fieldpack in your belly. Then give birth in a crypt and…” I wagged my head. “You oughta have your name in some sort of record book.”

  “That Judah.” Jessica frowned. “Papa didn’t tell us he was a doctor.”

  “I don’t know if Papa knew. I never knew. Even from what I heard, he was just some sort of anonymous fellow behind a mask. I almost didn’t much think of him as being a…real person, if you know what I mean.”

  “His eyes,” Jessica said softly. “I only saw his eyes. It was as if he somehow felt…and understands, at least…pain.”

  Both of us considered Judah’s own pain. What had he experienced when his face had been blown away? “He knows what it means, all right.”

  Baby Shalom continued to nurse. We sisters sat silently for a long time. I said at last, “Want a cup of tea? I’ve got the hot plate. See, look. Judah set it up over there.”

  “Can we have it in Mama’s teacups?”

  “They’re all wrapped up. I wanted them to be safe even if I fell on them.”

  “Mama would like it, wouldn’t she? You and me sharing hot tea served up in her teacups in the crypt of an old church with the entire German army booming toward us. A sort of occasion. Don’t you think?”

  “If you put it that way, how can I resist?” I set the kettle to boil on the hot plate, then carefully unwrapped two delicate china cups, leaving the saucers in their nest.

  It was true, I thought, as I steeped the Darjeeling and sweetened Jessica’s with a single lump of sugar. When I carried the steaming brew to Jessica, the baby was sleeping. Lips parted, a single drop of milk trickled from his rosebud mouth.

  Jessica smiled misty-eyed into the cup. “Mama’s watching us from heaven, you know, Lora. I heard her cheering when I made it that last mile.”

  I turned my gaze upward and lifted the cup in salute. “Hey, Mama.”

  Jessica repeated the motion. “Hey, Mama!”

  We each raised the gold rims to our lips at once. “In honor of the boy in the family!”

  Their stomachs were filled, and the atmosphere was like Regent’s Park on a warm Sunday afternoon. The occupants of Tyne Cott sunned themselves and dozed on blankets spread on the lawn.

  From the shade of a sycamore tree, I watched as Gina, Susan, and Judith ventured out from the camp to gather flowers among the silent, other residents of the vast field of dead.

  Wilted poppies and nodding lupines filled their arms as they scampered back to me. “We found these for Mommy and the new baby.” Gina buried her nose in blossoms.

  The younger of the sisters proclaimed, “And this for the doctor, Captain Judah, for saving Gina’s mother and the baby too.”

  Their gesture filled me with a sense of contentment. For a moment I almost forgot the distant rumble of the approaching enemy. “Precious girls. Gina, your mommy will be so pleased. Go on. Take them to your mommy and Captain Judah.”

  Eyes wide in sudden terror, the girls looked at one another and shook their heads in unison. I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Gina pursed her lips. “Well, we can take the bouquet to Mommy, but not to him.”

  The sisters wagged their heads in solemn agreement.

  I asked, “Gina? Why ever not?”

  She hesitated, as though her thoughts made her ashamed. “You know, Auntie Lora. You know.”

  I did know. They were afraid of his face. Afraid of the mask and his beautiful eyes that observed everything from behind the painted tin.

  Gina squinted as she often did before asking me for something beyond her reach. “Auntie Lora, will you? Will you take our flowers to him? Just say we like him. Tell him I said thanks.”

  “A messenger, am I?” I dried my hands, winked, and gathered the floral offering into both arms. “All right then.” The trio followed on my heels as I entered the chapel and knocked on the vestry door that Judah used as his office. “Captain Judah, it’s Lora Bittick…Kepler.” I announced my married name, which I seldom used because of my American passport.

  His deep, resonant voice replied, “Missus Kepler, come in.”

  I opened the door and with a backward glance tried to entice the girls to come in with me. They would not but linked arms and peered around me, like three lambs looking into the lion’s den.

  I left them outside and entered alone, not wanting to draw Judah’s attention to their revulsion. He occupied a chair at a massive carved oak desk cluttered with papers. A distinctive cigarette case was open on the green desk blotter before him.

  His eyes smiled at me and then beyond me at the girls. I knew he had seen their terror. “Come in, please, and shut the door.”

  “I’ve brought a thank offering.” I looked around for a vase. “The girls gathered these for you. By way of gratitude for Jessica’s life. And for the baby.”

  He stood and rummaged through a box, producing the empty shell casing of an artillery round. “Will this do?”

  I laughed. “I suppose that’s a man’s vase.”

  His green eyes leveled on my face from behind his rigid mask. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I am a man.”

  A charge of embarrassment went through me. I stammered, “I—I—I hope it’s okay they picked so many.”

  Pouring a pitcher of drinking water into the shell, he said, “Those who sleep at Tyne Cott won’t miss them. And those who are coming to Tyne Cott would have only trampled them. They’re fading fast now, anyway.”

  “Those who are…coming?” I arranged the bouquet.

  Judah sat down and extended a hand, inviting me to join him. “You hear the artillery?”

  I nodded and sank onto the chair opposite him. “Yes.”

  “Most of what you hear is not from our guns.”

  “Yes. My father said that might be the case.”

  Judah picked up the cigarette case and stared at the inscription inside. “We found this: a memento from the last war. We’re still finding little treasures on the grounds. Some artifacts from other wars as well. I lived in Harfleur for a while. A battlefield of Henry the Fifth.”

  I knew it from Shakespeare’s play. “How many centuries ago was that?”

  “Every battlefield is riddled with little things the living cherish and carry into battle. A locket with a lock of hair. A silver cross. A lucky coin. And this.” He held up the case and passed it to me.

  I read the inscription. Personal. Filled with hope for a future that ended too soon. “Makes me feel as if I’m eavesdropping somehow.” I nudged it back to him.

  “I thought maybe I could find the woman who gave this to him. Some clue. Maybe she never knew where he fell. So many were unidentified. She would not be old. Forty, maybe. It’s worth a try.” He sigh
ed and placed the artifact in an envelope that he labeled in red ink. Grasping a poppy, he tucked it inside. “But now, I don’t know if there will be time. We finish up planting one graveyard, and then there’s a new crop of young men to be sown.”

  “I am sorry it has happened again.”

  “Peace only lasts as long as the memory of war.”

  I changed the subject. “So you were a medical doctor in civilian life?”

  “And many things since. I love the peace of this place. We are all waiting for the trumpet. Waiting for the earth to crack open and our friends to rise.” He raised his face to me. “Your husband, Missus Kepler? Jewish name, isn’t it?”

  “My husband, Varrick Kepler. On the front with the BEF, last I heard. A translator for the BEF. He escaped from Germany.”

  “Ah, yes. You are an American. The marriage. Was it a help to save him?”

  “I wish I could have married ten Jews and—”

  He laughed. “If you save the life of one Jew, you have saved the universe.”

  “Varrick is my universe.”

  He nodded and considered my words. “I am glad to hear it. A happy ending, Missus Kepler.”

  I breathed no word of my anxiety that Varrick was dead. “Please. Lora. Just call me Lora.”

  “Yes. Loralei? It seems to me I remember…”

  I warmed to Judah. “Papa calls me one thing and another.”

  “Your father is a good man.” Judah’s words seemed wistful, almost familiar.

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died of a burst appendix. Very suddenly. Very…terrible for us all.”

  Judah steepled his fingers. “You must look like her. Very beautiful. She must have been very proud of you. You know, I could use your face for the Madonna. And baby Shalom as the Christ-child. If there was time to create more windows.”

  His words were so frank, yet so matter-of fact that I did not blush or feel that he was looking at me like a man looks at a woman. I might have been a poppy plunked into an empty artillery shell to brighten a windowless room.

  “Both Jessica and I resemble her. I’m glad.” I stood and touched the dead man’s cigarette case with my index finger. “I hope you find the woman who gave this to him. I mean, I hope she’s gone on without him and found a new love. A new life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyway, thank you. I don’t think Jessica or the baby would have made it without you.”

  “No.” His statement was blunt—a reaffirmation of fact, not boasting.

  “Then I thank you again for both their lives. I hope all goes well for you.”

  I took my leave, pleased to see that the girls had scampered down to visit Jessica and the baby. When I hurried downstairs, she was sitting up nursing Shalom as the trio of girls watched her in wonder. Faded poppies and drooping lupines still made a magnificent bouquet in a tin bucket.

  14

  When Jessica’s baby boy was only days old a grim-faced British officer entered the foyer of Tyne Cott’s chapel at the head of a muddy file of soldiers. The man looked weary to the point of exhaustion. Despite the deeply etched lines of pain on his face, in my judgment there was no mistaking his air of authority.

  “Colonel Gilmore,” he said, introducing himself. His eyes swept past Judah and the others to survey the chapel. “And this is now my headquarters. Who’s in charge here?”

  Judah Blood stepped forward. “I am. I’m caretaker of Tyne Cott.” He saluted the British officer.

  Colonel Gilmore’s right arm was bound in a bloody sling. He acknowledged Judah with a nod. “As of this moment the entire facility is under my command. All civilians”—Gilmore’s gaze seemed to rest particularly on me—“all civilians are to be evacuated immediately. The entire cemetery.”

  “Colonel,” Judah returned, “these”—with one hand he pointed out the doorway to the huddled throngs camped among the head-stones—“these have already been bombed out of homes and villages. They have come here seeking a place of refuge. Where do you suggest they go?” Though the implacable mask of Judah’s enameled forehead registered no tension, I heard it in his voice.

  Gilmore stepped closer to Judah and lowered his voice. I still overheard him as he tersely replied: “This is no refuge, man! This is front line country, or will be soon. Reports say German Army Group B is no more than a day away. Not only are the lines collapsing westward, but there is a thrust aimed directly at this spot.”

  Judah nodded his understanding. “The River Lys runs here from Armentieres to Ghent. The line of hills on our side of the river valley guards all the approaches from the east. Cassel is key to the south. Ypres in the center, and then Passendale and Tyne Cott.”

  Gilmore’s eyes widened at Judah’s succinct analysis.

  “I was here in the last war,” Judah explained simply. “We rebuilt this chapel like a fortress.”

  “Just so,” Gilmore agreed. “This spot is the highest ground in the vicinity. Nothing has changed from twenty years ago. This is still the hinge of the entire line. We must, and we will hold here, and the civilians will have to leave.”

  “And go where?” Judah said softly.

  Gilmore rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Where we’re all going, I suppose. To the sea.”

  “And France? Are there any roads still open?” Judah queried.

  Gilmore shook his head. “The Wehrmacht are about to reach the sea at Abbeville, splitting the Allied forces. If we can hold here, perhaps we can mount a counterattack; us from the north and the French from the south.” He spoke with an air of resignation; as one committed to an action he already knows will be futile.

  “When?” I blurted. “We have wounded here and mothers with infants.”

  Gilmore’s expression softened. “Soon,” he said. Abruptly the tenderness vanished as quickly as it had arrived, and the tensile steel of military necessity returned. “Mister Blood—”

  “Captain,” I interjected, surprising myself at my forwardness.

  “Very well,” Gilmore said, “Captain. Do you have maps of this place?”

  “I’ve kept military charts from the last war,” Judah explained.

  “I understand the German pillboxes are still serviceable?”

  “The four at the corners of the grounds,” Judah agreed. “They serve as potting sheds and storage rooms for the cemetery, but the concrete walls are still stout and the gunports easily cleared.”

  “And here?” Gilmore inquired.

  My eyes wandered over the chapel, especially the beautiful windows. Here? Surely not! This place of reflection and sorrow and the hope of meeting vanished loved ones again?

  “There are a handful of us, besides Winston Churchill, who saw this day would come. We have kept the chapel unoccupied. As you see. Cleared for action.” Judah turned to the girls and instructed them gently, “Go to my cottage. Fetch your father, if you can find him.”

  “Stout walls,” the colonel echoed Judah’s words. “Open field of fire on three sides. I’m sorry, Captain, but your days as caretaker are at an end.”

  At another nod from the colonel his aide directed a squad of British infantrymen, who jumped into action. The young girls were herded toward the door, but I refused to leave just yet.

  Piling benches beneath the windows the soldiers formed makeshift firing steps….then broke out the lower courses of glass with their rifle butts. I stared at the devastation until it reached the depiction of the crucified Lord in the eastern vault. Only when Christ’s wounded feet vanished into shards of shattered crystal, and bent and twisted lead, did I stifle a sob and retreat with the rest.

  The flare of a night bombardment lit the southeastern rim of the world like the view of a distant thunderstorm. That the explosions posed no immediate threat to the refugees camped at Tyne Cott was apparent. But, come morning, the German army rolling this direction would be as unstoppable as the tornados of the Texas plains.

  Cookfires had been extinguished at dusk, to prov
ide no targets for German gunners. The darkened expanse of the cemetery below my perch near the cross offered little clue that a couple thousand people slept…or at least rested there. Their bellies full of rice and beans, and their fears temporarily assuaged, most of the camp was quiet.

  In the middle distance a child sniffled and complained about being afraid of the graves. The mother’s hushed tones spoke reassurance and calm.

  Farther off, a baby cried.

  For a moment I wondered if it was my sister and newborn nephew. Then I dismissed the thought. Jessica and the baby, as well as Gina and the Jewish sisters, were tucked safely beneath the chapel.

  There was a continual rustling in the night as if a herd of sheep grazed amid Tyne Cott’s memorials. Come morning these human sheep would be looking for a reliable shepherd to give them direction.

  Rumors heard over supper placed the Germans everywhere, as if Tyne Cott were the center of a collapsing steel ring. Colonel Gilmore told them otherwise. The Wehrmacht was advancing from the south, southeast, and east, but routes toward the northwest were open.

  Northwest was the English Channel. What would happen when this throng reached the sea no one ventured to discuss. Perhaps they refused to think about it. Somewhere they believed they would find a wall of French, British, and Belgian soldiers to tuck themselves behind.

  The sea, though no more than thirty miles away, was only a distant consideration.

  Low on the western horizon, above the unseen Channel, hovered the bright beacon of Venus. Though the time was nearing midnight, the brightest of planets hung like a lantern pointing toward escape. I wondered if we would need its guidance in the nights ahead.

  I scented Papa’s bay rum cologne before I saw him. “You performed a wonder here,” I said. “They are fed and peaceful, like after a camp meeting on the Brazos.”

  “For the moment,” he agreed. “Tomorrow will be another matter. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, eh?”3

  “I have always thought of you like the Good Shepherd in David’s psalm, Papa.” I quoted back at him: “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”4