“Not our problem, is it?” Hawley rumbled.
“But that is where you’re wrong!” Eben thundered.
I shivered at his rebuke. It reminded me of the story of how the prophet Nathan confronted King David, shaking a finger in the king’s face and shouting, “Thou art the man!”
“What do you mean by that?” Hawley demanded.
“These people are Jews. My kinsmen. If they were allowed to choose, many of them would go to Palestine. But they are not permitted that choice. The British government has refused—categorically denied—the right of Jews leaving Nazi-occupied Europe to have entry into the British Mandate of Palestine. Very well. They cannot go home. They cannot go where they wish. Will you, then, keep them imprisoned for the duration of the war? Keep in mind they have escaped the very tyranny your brave soldiers and sailors are trying so desperately to keep from reaching these shores. They know how the Nazis operate, how they think, how they strike. If you crush the spirits of those who fled to you for refuge, what a denial of your own glorious heritage.”
It was impressive, but not enough. The woman, Mrs. Somersett, might be convinced, but not the two men. Hawley was obstinate; Vincent, belligerent.
It was with some surprise I found myself on my feet. “Sirs,” I said, “may I say a word?”
“And you are?”
“Lora Bittick Kepler. My father is…was…Robert Bittick of Brussels. The Nazis killed him. He was aiding the wounded at the defense of Passendale.”
Mrs. Somersett nodded vigorously and leaned over to whisper in Hawley’s ear.
“Though I am also a refugee,” I continued, “I am American, and my own status is not in question. I have been vouched for by members of the British government.”
More whispering.
“You may speak,” Hawley allowed.
“I had not intended to, but feel I must,” I said. “I want to tell you the story of a young woman, almost the same age as myself. Her name was Inga. She was one of a million refugees running ahead of the Blitzkrieg. She could not run fast enough, and during the panic”—I drew a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Eben squeezed my hand in encouragement—“in the escape she was caught…and raped.” Fixing my eyes on Mrs. Somersett, I continued, “Brutalized. You may say such things happen in war, and that is easy to say when you do not know the names and faces of the victims. But I met Inga…after she managed to arrive in England. I heard her story. I saw how the flame of her life was barely flickering. She could not speak; could barely breathe. Life was not precious to her; she barely still lived at all. Then, just in the smallest way, she came to have hope. She began to talk to me; to recognize that she might once more feel safe…feel protected.”
I shook my head sadly and could not keep the tears from coursing down my face. “Inga began to speak of helping others; reaching those who daily lived with recurring nightmares. Then she was rounded up, transported by cattle truck—by cattle truck—to a prison camp. She had come so far, endured so much…for what?”
During the last sentence the volume of my voice had dropped so low that the three members of the committee were leaning forward to hear the conclusion. “Inga,” I said, “killed herself. She gave up hope for rescue and protection. She gave up wanting to live.”
I sank to my seat. Eben embraced me. Madame Rose patted my arm. Mac scowled, and Eva cried softly.
The committee deliberated fifteen minutes in private, then returned. “We find,” Magistrate Hawley intoned, “that we must enforce the provisions of the Alien Registration Act…in regard to adult males, who are going to be interned on the Isle of Man. However, all females and all children under the age of sixteen will be released and returned to the responsibility of the appropriate agencies. We are adjourned.”
At nine in the morning the trucks bearing our freed exiles began arriving at St. Mark’s. The auditorium was filled with laughter and the babble of a half dozen languages as territory was reclaimed by former occupants.
There was only one who was missing among the crowd. I felt the loss of Inga acutely. I could not help but think how different her story might have been if only she had waited.
Along with the hundreds of familiar faces, suddenly there were also mother-and-child refugees who had been arrested in a dozen locations around London. They were released to our care through the decision of the tribunal.
By midday our ranks had swelled to more than double the number of those who had first come to us. It was to be my task to find homes around Great Britain for them all.
Eva joined me to help as we personally took charge of reregistering women with children under sixteen. We divided the queue into two groups: one for refugees from Eastern Europe, and the other for Dutch and French languages. I was grateful for Eva’s mastery of Polish and Czech and her smattering of Russian. In between long, animated conversations with refugees she would speak to me or Hermione, demonstrating her mastery of English as learned from Mac.
“You could have knocked me over with a fender. Polish, she is. That woman has five children, and she left when the Nazis came. Leaving her husband where he lies under the affluence of alcohol, she takes it on the sheep to England.”
“I understood nearly everything except the sheep,” Hermione droned.
Eva blinked at the ceiling. “On the sheep. Takes it on the sheep.”
I got it. “On the lam.”
Eva squinted her eyes. “What does it mean?”
Hermione sighed and shook her head. “Must be American. One cannot understand anything they say.”
My task was easier than translating Eva’s faulty American slang. I worked mostly with families speaking Germanic languages, French, Italian, and a smattering of Spanish.
Hermione, her voice shrill like a London Bobby’s whistle, spoke only English to everyone. With a series of gestures and grimaces she managed to get her message across clearly.
In one magnificent day the refuge that was St. Mark’s became a cross between Noah’s Ark and the confusion of the Tower of Babel.
So many refugees to feed and clothe and house. How could we begin to manage them all?
“Our responsibility is great,” Hermione admonished us as she brought us tea. The sun sank low, and there were still so many waiting in the line.
Eva nodded solemnly and tapped her pencil on the stack of applications. “As Mac says, ‘The butt stops here.’”
Hermione sniffed and raised her chin regally. “Hmm, Americans. My dear. In the vernacular, we British might say, rather, ‘The bum stops here.’”
PART SEVEN
A time to love.
ECCLESIASTES 3:8A
28
In mid-August we heard the news on the BBC. Nazi Deputy Rudolf Hess promised impending military action against Britain.
The Blitzkrieg against London was on.
We spent days and nights descending into deep tube stations for shelter, and climbing up the stairs some hours later to find whole blocks of London shattered.
I was sheltered in the crowded Oxford tube station one afternoon when I pulled out Eben’s “White Rose” poem to read it once again. Scanning the roses, I studied the beautiful calligraphy inscribed within the Thirty-six. On the back of the page I had written the words of the Rabbi from Bevis Marks Synagogue: Thirty-six Lamed Vav.
Behind me two elderly men remarked, “The most peaceful place in London is the basement of the British Museum Reading Room. I spent four hours yesterday in the vaults reading an early copy of Treasure Island. The air-raid siren sounded and we barely heard the bombs.”
The next day I made my way to the British Museum Reading Room and was directed to the basement, which now contained long reading tables. I presented a slip of paper to the balding, bespectacled research assistant. Only two phrases that I had gleaned from the Bevis Marks’ rabbi were written there:
Legend of the Lamed Vav—Hebrew tradition
36 Righteous men—Christian tradition
I did not write down the question
I had asked Mama so many years ago in Germany: “Who is Eben? Or rather, what is Eben?”
Mama had answered me like a poet on the Texas prairie might: “Eben is a nightingale. His ancient voice sings to the world in the darkness.”
I had not thought of Mama’s words for years, but now the memory ignited a question that burned in my heart. I had no expectation that this visit to the library would yield any helpful material in my quest. I took my seat among a dozen silent scholars who were surrounded by mounds of books and papers. The only sounds were an occasional clearing of a throat and the rustle of turning pages. In such a peaceful place, who could guess that there was a war going on?
After nearly thirty minutes the research assistant emerged from the vaults. He was pushing a trolley heaped with antique volumes and bound documents, each of which contained some reference to my question. A printed list of page numbers and passages was placed before me like the main dish of a banquet.
In a whisper that seemed loud in the absolute silence he said, “These are the most recent volumes. Nineteenth-century copies and commentary mostly. The originals are stored away safely in the vaults. There are many ancient manuscripts in the Vatican Library, of course, but the war, you know. Mussolini’s Italy now in the Axis…Rome may be difficult to reach.”
I thanked him, too loudly. My voice echoed in the dome. An aged scholar looked up from his book and glared at me in disapproval.
Top of the stack was a Talmudic commentary dating from the nineteenth century. I opened my lined notebook and began to write as I scanned the pages of one book after another.
Lamedvavniks:
The source of the legend is the Talmud. The Lamed Vav Tzadikim (Hebrew: ), “36 Righteous Ones.” Abbreviated to Lamed Vav, this name refers to 36 righteous people. This concept is rooted within mystical Judaism.
The source is the Talmud itself:
As a mystical ideal the number 36 is intriguing. It is said that at all times there are 36 special people in the world, and that were it not for them, all of them, if even one of them was missing, the world would come to an end. The two Hebrew letters for 36 are the lamed, which is 30, and the vav, which is six. Therefore, these 36 are referred to as the Lamed Vav Tzadikim; the Thirty-six Righteous. This widely held belief, this most unusual Jewish concept, is based on an ancient Hebrew text that in every generation 36 righteous “greet the Divine Presence.” The number 36 is twice 18. In gematria (a form of Jewish numerology), the number 18 stands for “life,” because the Hebrew letters that spell chai, meaning “living,” add up to 18. Because 36 = 2×18, it represents “two lives.”
As I pondered the idea of eighteen pairs of lives…two lives, two witnesses…something my father had taught us when we studied the book of Revelation came suddenly into sharp focus.
And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth…. And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them…. And after three days and an half the Spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them. And they heard a great voice from heaven saying unto them, Come up hither. And they ascended up to heaven in a cloud; and their enemies beheld them.6
With Papa we had puzzled over who the two witnesses could be. Were they prophets like Moses and Elijah at the Mount of Transfiguration, returning again to deliver God’s final messages to the defiant earth? The account in Revelation certainly pictured “two lives” as holding forth for righteousness and judgment, prophesying against rebellion and sin. Clearly a Jew would define them as Lamedvavniks.
I returned to my study.
The purpose of Lamedvavniks:
Mystical Judaism, as well as other segments of Jewish faith, believe there are, at all times, 36 righteous people whose role in life is to justify the purpose of mankind in the eyes of God.
In folk tales the Lamedvavniks appear at critical times and by their spiritual powers succeed in averting the impending dangers to a people from the enemies that surround them. They return to concealment as soon as their task is accomplished. The Lamedvavniks, dispersed throughout the world, do not even know each other. Rarely, one is accidentally “revealed,” but the secret of their identity must not be disclosed. Some believe the concept to have originated in the Book of Beginnings (Genesis), chapter 18, where it is recorded:
“And the Lord said, ‘If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for them.’”
After hours of study, my search had only begun. One reference to the legend led to another and another. After four hours I leapt to Christian traditions. The medieval tales of Prester John made up one tall stack of books. Reportedly a descendant of the Magi, the Prester John legends were exaggerated and filled with fantasy. I laid these accounts aside. Then an old, familiar volume of Eusebius caught my eye. I remembered the day Papa had made me put down the poetry of Keats and had set me to the task of translating a passage from Eusebius.
I set to work again. I found that even here, in the writings of the early church fathers, there were references to those who had been healed by Jesus still living two hundred years later. The writings of Irenaeus, Polycarp, and Eusebius spoke of those who had reached a great age among the first generation of Christ followers.
The lights blinked and from behind his desk the librarian announced that the library would soon be closing. The precious volumes must be returned to the bombproof vaults. London was burning down around us all through the first weeks of that hot and terrible August. Only thoughts of seeing Eben again illuminated my heart through the long, dark nights.
After evening prayers, I walked to my now usual meeting with Eben, preferring daylight to the mole tunnel of London’s Underground system. Silver-skinned barrage balloons floated like giant fish above the city.
In the daytime London’s scars were as visible as the painted faces hiding the disfigured features of the Tin Noses Brigade.
I reached the top of Primrose Hill and stood beside an antiaircraft gun. From my high vantage point I looked out across the villages of London. She was a grand old lady, built upon the swales and gentle rises of the terrain. A low, horizontal city, London had grown up around lush green parks and genteel squares. Her buildings were topped by a forest of clay chimneypots. Structures of red brick or white stone were tarnished by centuries of coal smoke and streaked by time.
Despite the soot, London had aged gently. She resembled a dignified grandmother who had suffered a fall, leaving her unable to get her hair done, or put on a dress, or find her lipstick.
Like the ladies who now inhabited her, London was a city without makeup. There was no hiding her scars in the daylight. Beyond Regent’s Park I saw whole blocks of shops and houses damaged or destroyed. Wedding cake spires of churches, rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666, were collapsed, charred, and roofless.
Yet what London lost in beauty, she gained in character. For the proudest of reasons, she remained proud. There was grandeur in London’s poverty. She wore stoicism like a medal earned in battle. Nearby, a row of five houses bordering the park had been hit. Walls still standing, they were windowless, gutted, and boarded up.
I watched as three women picked through the bricks, salvaging what they could of a lifetime’s possessions. Uncommon courage was common these days.
Behind me I heard Eben’s familiar voice. “They say a robin’s nest ravaged by a hawk will be rebuilt beneath the eaves by the next generation of robins. But perhaps we are the last.”
I turned to him, somehow not surprised he knew what I was thinking. He smiled, stooped, and kissed my mouth. “You’re late,” he said.
“I’m early,” I protested.
“I’ve been waiting for you…centuries.” He pulled me against him and kissed me again. His broad back was strong and hard. I was vaguely aware the so
ldiers who manned the gun were watching us. Pushing him away, I turned and crossed my arms over my chest—a gesture that warned there would be no more public kisses this afternoon.
He laughed at my petulance and placed his hands on my arms. I was stirred by his warmth against my back. Leaning my head against him, we stood observing the city in silence for a time.
After long moments, he spoke. “I have always loved her.”
“London?”
“Her strength. No, her dignity is a better word.”
“Wounded, but still standing.”
“Beautiful still. Beauty with that sad, tortured look, like the faces of those who have suffered terribly and who are capable of enduring terrible suffering.”
For a fleeting moment I thought of Varrick, then my father and mother. So many others, gone. My soul mirrored the trio who picked through the bricks of their broken house in search of something familiar. Small treasures plucked from the midst of cataclysmic destruction were reason to rejoice. The miracle of an unbroken teacup. A photograph. A book. A pair of gloves. First one shoe and then the other…
Eben whispered, his breath soft in my ear, “I was reading last night. Emily Dickinson. I found you in the pages. You, Lora. I see you. I hear your heart. In you, Christ’s love sings.
“If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin,
Unto her nest again,
I shall not live in vain.”
I inhaled slowly. Had I ever felt such love from anyone? His eyes perceived in my soul a beauty I could not perceive in myself. “Eben? This is what you see in me?”
“Lora, I have not dared to speak of love to any woman—not since, well, not for a very long time. But now…”
“Why now, Eben?” I did not dare look at him.