With the strange incongruity of the commonplace popping up in the midst of great human drama, the postman arrived. Elderly and gray-haired, he carried his leather mail pouch over stooped shoulders. I saw him coming up the walk and threw back the door before he knocked.
“Good afternoon!” he spoke in French.
“I’m glad to see you.” I wondered if I had ever been so happy to see a mailman at my door. “You’re delivering the mail. Even with the bombing.”
“I’m too old to fight. This is how I fight the Boche. I get on with my work.” He passed me a stack of letters—delayed birthday cards, no doubt, some with American stamps.
“I’m glad to see you, all the same.” I smiled and pocketed the greetings.
“I don’t know if I told you: your mother was a very fine lady. I suppose she is missed?” He knit his brow and adjusted his cap.
“Yes, very much. Thanks for saying so. She wouldn’t think much of all this, though.”
“No. I suppose not.” He shifted his satchel to the other arm. “I see Alderman Seminary is empty. Those refugees. Where to go now, eh? I never had letters to deliver to them, but always there was mail to pick up. They were writing letters home to villages the Germans destroyed and to people who no longer exist. So, they’ve gone.”
“Everyone at the seminary has gone.”
“Poor Jews. Perhaps everyone else will adjust.”
“They had to leave.”
“Two steps ahead of the executioner, always.” The postman looked upward, studying the sky for sign of bombers. “North Station is a burned-out hulk. Everyone who goes now will travel on the roads. Unhappy rumors. Trainloads of refugees who left Holland yesterday were machine-gunned. British tanks on the way here are blocked by refugees. The great fortress of Eben-Emael fallen to some secret weapon. German parachutists falling on the countryside like blossoms in a high wind.”
“The radio is no use.” I concluded that the postman’s rumors were no use either.
“Will you still be here tomorrow?” He cocked his head like a dog listening for a whistle.
“Of course,” I lied. I did not want my father’s whereabouts to become one of the postman’s rumors, repeated to the Gestapo if Brussels fell.
“Well, then, I will see you tomorrow. Good luck.” He tipped his hat and trudged off to find some other family on his mail route who had not taken flight.
It was after midnight when air-raid sirens screamed again across Brussels. The howl awakened panic in Belgium before the bombs fell. In the far distance a sound like a kettledrum boomed the news of heroic last stands and brave men falling like dominos along the front. They were dying in order to buy time for some to escape.
“France!” came the cry as the booms grew nearer and louder.
As civilians took cover in basements and inadequate bomb shelters, others, including all the Jews remaining in Belgium, took to the highway.
Aaron Alderman Seminary was dark. Fires were reflected in the window glass. Not one Jew remained on the grounds, and those who could leave were fleeing through the dark countryside. Soon enough the seminary would become quarters for Nazi soldiers.
Papa announced we had waited long enough.
Who will live in the stone cottage? I wondered, as I selected a few small mementos to take away with me. Who will eat off Mama’s china plates?…Some member of the Nazi party might live here, box up the Meissen china, and ship it home to his heiling wife.
The thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Suddenly I was angry—angry at the waste of all this.
Behind me Jessica asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I hate them. I don’t want some little SS butcher eating off Mama’s dishes.”
We two sisters stood before the open cupboard. Place settings for twelve. Oh, the memories in all those dishes.
Jessica said, “They were meant to be yours. She left them for you.”
“I’m taking one teacup and a saucer. And here. One for you, and one for Gina too.” I stretched out my hand to the neat stacks of plates. “We’ll never be back.”
“No,” Jessica concurred.
“They won’t have them. I won’t let them have one more thing. They are thieves. Butchers! Jessica, I tell you I won’t let them eat off Mama’s plates.”
Jessica crossed her arms and stepped back, smiling defiantly. “Then do it!”
I slipped a plate from the stack. Holding it to my heart, I kissed the blue lilac in the center. “I won’t let them steal you. I won’t let them toast their pagan gods above your shining beauty.”
“Go ahead,” Jessica cried, “do it! Mama would want you to!”
With all my might I hurled the plate against the wall. It shattered with a mighty crash. Again and again I smashed the plates until only the teapot and three sacred teacups and saucers remained. I passed the teapot to my sister. “One for Mama.”
Jessica smiled like a bitter, fierce warrior and raised the teapot high. She held it there, then heaved it mightily onto the floor.
We stared at the mess and began to laugh. We laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks. We finished with a single sigh.
“We’re done here, then,” Jessica said, lifting her chin. “Well done, Texan.”
Neither of us looked back as we left the kitchen.
I brought Papa my valise. I knew it was too heavy to carry if we had to walk. But what could I leave behind?
Papa pulled the Fiat halfway out of the garage and began to load it with supplies.
I returned to the house for a last look around. Had we forgotten anything crucial? What if Jessica’s baby came while we were on the road?
I gathered a few more towels, a washbasin, and disinfectant. Papa had packed groceries. Tea and sugar. Beans and noodles. I snatched up the teakettle and an armful of tin picnic mugs. Surely there would be a stove along the way—some place to boil water for a cup of tea.
The pitch of the air-raid siren changed. I dashed from the house and peered up into the starlit sky. How brightly the stars shone since the lights of every city and village had been blotted out.
Suddenly Brussels fell silent. It was an expectant silence, like the pause between the movements of a symphony.
And, most incongruously, it was pervaded with the scent of lilacs.
Papa called to me quietly, “Almost ready, Loralei?”
“Yes, Papa.” I stowed the practical gear beneath the dashboard within easy reach. In my suitcase was a shoebox filled with Papa’s love letters and family photos, along with unopened birthday greetings I would read in Paris. I had allowed myself to pack the Meissen teacups and saucers with Mama’s silver candlesticks in my valise. High heels and dresses were left behind. I needed only practical clothes—lederhosen and hiking shoes—in case we had to abandon the car and take off across country on foot.
The nervousness of the unknown that had plagued me was suddenly gone. I was calm.
From the stream of civilians passing by the cottage, someone paused at the foot of the driveway and shouted the news: “Pastor Bittick! The Nazis! Broken through! Our line collapsed in less than an hour! Killed all the men of the First. All!”
Jessica’s arms fell limp at her sides. “William.” She whispered her husband’s name.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Grief closed my throat. I knew if William had fallen at the front, Varrick would be at his side. What was it I had said to Papa? “Remember the Alamo?”
Gina’s sleepy voice called, “Is Daddy coming with us, Mommy?”
Jessica squared her shoulders and looked beyond the Fiat toward the small churchyard where Mama was buried. Her headstone had not yet been put in place on the grave. “No, Gina. No, baby. Daddy won’t be going with us.”
I slid my arm around my sister’s waist. “Jessica?”
“Don’t, Loralei. Don’t talk sweet to me right now. I’ll break.”
So, the Germans had sliced through the lines like a hot knife through butter. The worst fears of what remained of unoc
cupied Europe were coming true. Hitler had broken his promises to the neutral nations.
The sirens fell silent. The sound of feet and handcarts trudging on the road filled the night. An occasional sniffle could be heard.
Jessica bit her lip, then returned to the task at hand. She arranged a bed in the backseat of Papa’s auto for Gina and tucked her in. Baby things and boxes of emergency food and water, and Mama’s medical supplies from her years as a nurse were stashed in the trunk, out of reach of the hands of hungry exiles.
Papa’s black 1928 Fiat 528 convertible had been an elegant automobile in its day, but years of hauling seminary students on mission trips across Europe had left its once-sleek black finish dull and dinged. Mama had told me more than once as Papa set out on his journeys that the Fiat reminded her of a packed prairie schooner heading west across the Rockies to the Promised Land.
Where was the Promised Land tonight? I wondered, as refugees streamed past Alderman. I plucked two sprigs of lilac blossoms. One, I tucked into my Bible. The other I carried to Papa.
Papa tightened the cords around the suitcases and boxes tied to the running boards. “The tank is full of petrol.” He seemed comforted that he had been wise with the rations. Perhaps wise enough to save his family.
“Papa?” I nodded toward the cemetery gate and handed him the lilac sprig.
“Yes…yes,” he answered, then strode away briskly. The hinges of the gate groaned as he entered. Minutes passed. He returned without the lilac bloom and hurried past us. I heard the jingle of keys as he locked the front door of the stone cottage.
A futile gesture in the face of the Blitzkrieg.
I climbed into the front seat beside Papa. Jessica sat in the back, cradling Gina’s head as the child slept. The engine roared to a start. The Fiat lurched a bit as Papa pulled it from the garage, and it rumbled down the driveway.
I turned my face to look back one last time. Memories flooded my mind, and I relived the days when I first loved Eben Golah, and Varrick first loved me.
PART TWO
A time to embrace,
and a time to refrain from embracing.
ECCLESIASTES 3:5B
3
1936
The summer of the Olympic games, Berlin filled with people from all over the globe. Nazi propaganda against Jews quieted down for a time. Demonstrations of Aryan superiority and the smooth workings of National Socialism in a former democracy took center stage. For a short time the borders to free nations were open for us to travel.
My father obtained tickets for us to see the American track team perform superbly. Then we left the oppressive heat of Germany and crossed the border into Switzerland, where my parents had arranged for us to stay in a cottage at a resort near Geneva.
It was late afternoon when we stepped from the train. Suddenly I noticed a tangible difference in the expressions of the people on the platform. They were smiling. Their eyes seemed clear. They spoke to one another without turning their heads from side-to-side to see who might be listening. Outside the oppression of Germany I felt as if I could breathe freely. The air of Switzerland was pure and the sky more blue than I had ever seen. I felt so happy to be alive. I did not think of what was happening in Germany.
A white-haired woman of about fifty years of age hurried toward us and our heaps of luggage. I knew she recognized my parents, though I had never met her. Her eyes were blue like the Swiss heavens. She greeted my parents cheerfully, “I am Frau Helga Thoenen. You are Pastor and Frau Bittick. Welcome! Where do you want to go?”
Papa answered, “We have come seeking freedom.”
Frau Thoenen smiled again. “You have come to the right place. The others will be so happy you have come.”
By the time we piled into a large touring car, we were already on a first-name basis. Frau Helga and Papa stowed our bags. Mama’s face was suffused with peace. We set off from the station as clouds rolled in, and it began to rain. The wipers barely kept up with the downpour. Frau Helga, undaunted, began to sing in time with the rhythm of the ticking blades: “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee….” We all joined in.
It was a long ride to the hotel. I fell asleep against Mama’s shoulder.
When I awoke, it was dark. The rain had stopped, and the full moon was rising above the majestic peaks. A bridge of silver light reflected on the water of a lake.
The car halted at an ornate iron gate. I smelled the fragrance of white roses blooming in profusion on the fence.
Frau Helga turned to us. “Welcome to the White Rose Inn.”
We drove down a long gravel driveway to a hotel flanked by expansive gardens and guesthouses. I heard voices as we pulled up and recognized one voice in particular. By the light of the moon I saw my father’s friend, Eben Golah, come down the steps. Twenty-six, or so, built like a wrestler, smiling broadly and wearing a light linen jacket…was I dreaming? I thought I had never seen any man so handsome.
Eben opened the door. “Welcome home, Frau Helga. Who have you brought?”
Frau Helga replied, “Make them welcome, Eben. They are in search of freedom.”
I suddenly realized the repeated phrase was a password of sorts.
Eben gripped Papa’s hand and helped Mama out of the car. Then, in a sort of miracle, as I emerged, Eben wrapped his arms around me in a wonderful embrace and kissed my cheek. “Look at you, Lora! All grown up. A white rose in bloom. How beautiful you are.”
His attention, though intended as kindness to a somewhat gawky eighteen-year-old girl, made me blush. I was grateful that the moonlight hid my rising color. I was in turmoil. I had left Germany less than twenty-four hours before.
Now Eben held my heart captive.
There were a dozen others at the White Rose Inn who had gathered with a purpose. As we ate a cold supper, we were joined at the buffet by families of Christian leaders and leaders of the Zionist movement. Over an abundance of food, the adults spoke about evacuations and the logistics of children’s transports from Nazi Germany to England, America, and Canada. Boys and girls my age introduced themselves. A tennis match was arranged for us for the next day while our parents discussed Hitler and the American isolationists. I only heard Eben’s voice among them all.
We were settled in a beautiful little cottage with two bedrooms and a loft, where I slept. My windows opened to a balcony looking out over flower gardens and a wide, tree-filled lawn that sloped down to the edge of the lake. From my perch I could clearly see the porch of Eben’s cottage. While in Switzerland, I often sunned myself while he sat in his lawn chair and read or scribbled notes.
We stayed at the White Rose Inn for six perfect weeks. I lived for Eben that summer. His glance lit a fire in me that I had never felt before. The strength and confidence with which he spoke made me ever more shy and silent. He was amused by my blush when he smiled and called me his white rose.
How could he know what had happened to my heart?
By day a group of young people my age played on the beach, swam, or played tennis or lawn bowling. At night we gathered around a bonfire to sing and tell stories. I dutifully wrote picture postcards of the magnificent Swiss countryside to my friends.
But each day as I posted the cards, I knew that my fickle heart had already relegated everyone else to close acquaintances.
Our cottage was a hotbed of anti-Nazi gatherings. Pastors and leaders of the Jewish Agency met together in Papa’s study to discuss how to quietly evacuate Jewish children from the inevitable persecution we all knew was coming.
I hovered in the shadows of my loft like a little bird as they held endless discussions about Hitler. As they speculated about how long Hitler could last, I memorized the tilt of Eben’s head and the gestures of his beautiful, square hands as he spoke.
All the guests at the White Rose celebrated the news that the black American sprinter, Jesse Owens, beat out Hitler’s Aryan athletes at the games.
The events of the Olympic Games in Germany I relegated to unreality. Nothing mattered but my
plan to find some moment alone with Eben so I could tell him I loved him.
I noticed that every morning he strolled a mile into the village to buy a newspaper. As summer drew to a close, I realized I was nearing my last opportunity to confess my feelings for him.
I rose early and, ahead of Eben, hurried up the lane. About halfway to the village, I found a shady spot beside a pasture where Hafflinger mares grazed with their foals. I sat down to wait. After a half hour, when he still did not come, I became entranced by the sight of the colts galloping across the field. I did not hear Eben’s step behind me.
He spoke my name. “Lora?”
I blushed. The warmth of desire uncoiled in me. I felt my heart pounding. Everything I wanted to say fled from my mind.
“The horses,” I said, gripping the fence rail.
I felt him come near. “Beautiful,” he said in a wistful voice.
I turned. My voice caught. “Eben…” I faltered. “I love you.”
He lifted his hand, as though he would touch my cheek. He smiled down into my eyes as if he had never known an unhappy moment. “White rose. So beautiful. So young.”
“Not so young.”
“Centuries too young, Lora.”
“You aren’t yet thirty. I heard Papa say so,” I protested.
When he held me in his gaze for a long moment, I knew he had thought about me. “You are a memory, Lora…so familiar. Another lifetime. Another place. A different world…it might have been.”
“Why not now, Eben?” I threw myself at him.
He plucked my arms from around his neck and stepped back. “Go home now, or I shall tell your father.” Turning on his heel, he strode off angrily.
I wept in the forest for the rest of the day.
On Friday afternoon, Frau Helga Thoenen made preparations for a Shabbat meal. Her dinner was an elegant affair. Long tables were set up on the lawn of the White Rose Inn. I helped her spread white tablecloths and set her fine china. Sterling silver gleamed in the golden sunlight of the late afternoon.