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Beneath the Dover Sky

Page 29

by Murray Pura


  Early the next morning, Catherine and Libby arrived to sit with the patients. They sent Skitt and Montgomery away to rest. The two sisters sat side by side facing the beds. The curtains were drawn, but a thin slit let a few rays of pale white light into the room. The beds were close together, and sometime during the night Lady Preston and Jane had linked hands. Both were sound asleep but their grip held.

  Libby wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Catherine squeezed her arm. “They will get better,” Catherine whispered. “In a few weeks they’ll be up and about and getting on with their lives. You’ll see.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t understand the ways of the world, and I’m like Father in that I certainly don’t understand the ways of God. I never thought the Nazis would be the ones who brought Mother and Jane together.”

  17

  July–November, 1930

  Hartmann Castle, the Rhine River, Germany

  Dear Cornelia, my diary,

  We are at Hartmann Castle on the Rhine. We left Germany for Switzerland as soon as Mum and the girls were on their feet. We stayed in Pura through May and June and then came here.

  Mum is still with us, along with Skitt and Margaret, Jane’s maid Montgomery, Eva and the baron, my Sean and my Albrecht. Mum wants Jane and Eva to go to England to live. This is being debated right now, though no longer with Libby present. She’s at Dover Sky visiting with Terry under the watchful eyes of Holly and Harrison and Caroline and Kipp.

  First things first. Mum and Jane and Eva are all right—but not really all right. Their bodies are healed for the most part and their spirits seem strong. But Mum will not return to Tubingen, and Jane is hesitant about going back as well. It’s impossible to keep the German news from them. We may be on the Rhine, but we are not on the moon. We are all aware that the economy remains in rough shape and that Herr Hitler and the Nazis are taking full advantage of the bleak situation. Just the other day two boats drifted past heading south, hours apart, each with large red-and-black swastika flags flying from their sterns. Any thought that the Nazis are a passing phase is dashed. Clearly some Germans are looking to them to bring the country into a golden age of prosperity and success.

  The great blessing has been how Mum and Jane have come together because of the attack by the brownshirts. No more talk of Jane being adopted or not being of English blood and all that rot. Mum says she is a Danforth through and through. Jane cries when she talks about how Mum fought to protect her, putting her body over Jane’s and absorbing the blows. The two are inseparable now. It does the heart good to see. You can imagine the happiness this has brought Libby.

  So now my feelings about Libby and Terry. I can truthfully say the street incident with Mum and the girls and the Nazis shook me awake. If God means Terry to be part of the family, who am I to stand in His way or, indeed, in the way of my sister’s happiness? Jane could have been beaten to death, and Libby would have been left with no one. Any lingering feelings I may or may not have for Terry Fordyce simply have to be locked in a steamer trunk and stored away in the attic. My sister comes first. If she marries my navy man, God bless her, and may she have a new start on a life that is filled with love and miracles. In any case, they wouldn’t be making their home in Germany—not with Terry being an officer on the Hood. So I shan’t see him unless I go to the wedding. I find I am quite strong enough to do that now—if they get to that place—and I look forward to it. No wedding has been announced—not even an engagement—but if I were betting on the horses, I would be betting on Libby and Terry.

  Finally I must mention my pregnancy. It is much easier than Sean’s was, but I don’t think that necessarily means it’s a girl. I crave strudel, so whoever is coming into the world has a very strong sweet tooth. I intend to give birth in this lovely old castle, which has Albrecht on needles and pins. He has a doctor and midwife standing by. And, as I reminded my German prince, it is not so many years ago that most babies were born in the home, not in hospitals. We’ll be fine. These castles represent some of the best of the German spirit, and I want a child crying its first cry and taking its first breath in one of them. That is my fairy tale.

  Jerusalem

  “How is your Arabic coming along?” the man asked.

  Robbie poured his friend some sweet strong coffee. The windows in his office were shuttered against the bright Jerusalem sun. “Jayed.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The slender man in the white Thawb and keffiyeh lifted the small cup of coffee to his mouth. “You have made it exactly the way I like it, major. Just the right amount of sweet; just the right amount of bitter.”

  “It sounds like you’re talking about Palestine, Azad.”

  The Arab laughed. “I suppose I am.” He set the cup down. “Did you attend the hangings on the seventeenth of June?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the three men die well?”

  “They died, Azad.”

  “Only Arabs were executed.”

  “Many other Arabs and Jews received life sentences. The three who were hung were convicted of multiple murders and mutilations.”

  Azad picked up his cup again and sipped. “It won’t matter. The Palestine Arab Congress will twist it to suit themselves. So will the Zionists.”

  Robbie drank from his own small cup of coffee. “Let’s talk about your writing. What sort of novel are you working on?”

  “Two friends in Jerusalem. One Jewish, the other from an Arab family that has moved into the city from a village. The story is tragic.”

  “I’m just working my way through your first novel with an Arabic–English dictionary by my side. There is a good deal of joy in that book.”

  “I wrote it fifteen years ago, Robert.”

  “I’ve read portions of it to my wife. You know how the Irish are about literature. They believe they created it. She quite likes your prose, even in my rough and ready English translation.”

  Azad bowed his head briefly. “Convey my thanks.”

  “We must have you over for dinner.”

  “I should like that. Please, let us do it sooner rather than later.”

  “Why? Is something about to happen?”

  “Something is always about to happen, Robert. My fear is that eventually too many things will happen. The British will leave, Jews and Arabs will be at each others’ throats, and we will have half a dozen countries in this region at war with each other. Arab Christians in one place; Arab Muslims in another; Orthodox Jews in Safed and Jerusalem; Jews who no longer believe in God in Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

  Robbie leaned over the table between them and poured more coffee into Azad’s cup. “Where will you be?”

  “England. Where else does a nonpracticing Muslim run to?” He wrapped both hands around his small cup of fresh coffee. “But the believers will come there too eventually and find me. So then I will flee to America or Canada.”

  “I suppose if we miss the dinner date here we can always make arrangements at my family’s estate at Ashton Park.”

  Azad smiled. “If there is a great deal of green, I will come.”

  “Lancashire is as green as a keffiyeh full of emeralds.”

  “Count on me then.” Azad drank from his cup. “You opened fire on Arabs during the riots. You testified against a number of them at their trials.”

  “Azad—”

  He held up one dark hand. “It is true you arrested several Jews as well. One was attempting to burn down a mosque. Your testimony put several Jews behind bars. They should have been hung for what they did.”

  “Several Arabs as well as Jews had their death sentences commuted to life imprisonment.”

  “I do not say this to incriminate you in any way. Those on both sides who still choose to see clearly understand you are fair and evenhanded. But others only see what they do not like. You will be surprised to learn I don’t come to warn you of what the Arabs might do but the Jews.”

  “What do you mean? No one has attacked British troops or officers. Not Jews, not
Muslims.”

  Azad took a biscuit from the tray next to the coffee. “You spoke with members of the Hope Simpson Royal Commission this past year, didn’t you?”

  Robbie nodded. “I was ordered to cooperate. I spoke with the Members of Parliament who drafted the Shaw Report as well.”

  “Do you know Sir John Hope Simpson?”

  “Yes. He’s a friend of the family in England.”

  “I understand the report will be presented this fall. There are rumors about what is in it. The rumors have the Palestine Arab Congress singing praise to Allah and Jews gnashing their teeth. Hope Simpson will recommend Jewish immigration be restricted.”

  “The Shaw Report was made public in March. It said the same thing.”

  “So Hope Simpson will push the line that much harder.”

  Robbie was quiet a moment. “How reliable are your sources?”

  “Very. The reason Hope Simpson will give is that there is not enough farmland to support the influx.”

  “Nonsense. The Jews have planted eucalyptus trees to drain swamps. They’ve irrigated desert no one wanted. They’ve taken the worst land Arabs have sold them and raised crops.”

  “I grew up in this region. Many Arabs living here now did not. They are immigrants just as a large number of the Jews are immigrants. From what I understand the report does not go into great detail about Arab immigration.” Azad spread his hands. “Hope Simpson had to give some rationale. That is what he chose—insufficient arable land. If true, Zionists will never accept such a proposal. Should your prime minister, Ramsay MacDonald, implement it, British officers will be targeted. So I ask you to be careful, my friend. Vary your driving routes. See there is security keeping an eye on your home. Perhaps MacDonald’s hold on power is too weak for him to act on the report. Or perhaps he will find the support he needs close at hand.”

  “Or perhaps your sources are inaccurate. Perhaps Hope Simpson will not recommend a hard line on Jewish immigration. Perhaps Westminster will pay no attention to either Shaw or him.” Robbie smiled. “Or perhaps you exaggerate the threat to the British army and myself.”

  Azad sipped at his bittersweet coffee. “Perhaps.”

  Ashton Park

  At the dinner table, Lord Preston was cutting into his mutton when Ben cleared his throat. The older man glanced up and cocked a white eyebrow as he chewed and swallowed. “Mmm? What’s on your mind?”

  “I was wondering if you were heading to Dover Sky for the summer, sir? Or are you remaining here at Ashton Park?”

  “I will go down. But first I’m waiting to hear from Lady Preston on the birth of Catherine’s child. Once I have that cable in my hand, I’m on my way to Germany and the Hartmann Castle on the Rhine. I have never seen it, and I very much want to take Catherine’s son or daughter into my arms among those crenellations and merlons. I must say I am looking forward to a trip abroad.”

  “Will Elizabeth be returning with you?”

  “She’d better be!” Lady Grace darted a glance at Ben. She held her soup spoon firmly. “She’s been in that dreadful country since Easter and all because of a Chinese girl!”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Lord Preston wiped the corners of his mouth with a white napkin as Tavy hovered over him with a silver coffeepot. “The Chinese girl is our granddaughter, and Catherine is happily married to a German professor of theology.”

  “You’re making all that up.” Lady Grace’s attention returned to her soup, eying it suspiciously. “Tavy, did you exchange my soup bowl for this one?”

  “No, ma’arm.”

  “Because I had more soup than this.”

  “Shall I ladle a bit more into your bowl, Lady Grace?”

  “No, thank you, Tavy. You will not. Having my own soup returned to me will be sufficient, if you please.”

  “Very good.” Tavy brought a fresh bowl of soup curling with steam from his cart and placed it before her. He removed the bowl. “There you are, m’lady.”

  “Ah.” She half-glared and half-smiled at him. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “What’s that?” Sir Arthur looked up from his plate on the other side of the table.

  “Someone took my soup. I have it back now. All’s well.”

  “Grace, it’s the same soup, year in, year out. What bowl it’s in hardly matters.”

  “It matters a great deal who has been sipping at my soup. I want my own bowl, untouched, unspooned, thank you.”

  Sir Arthur sawed away with knife and fork. “The cook tests the soup by putting it to her lips. That’s what you’re eating, and you’ve been eating it since 1909.”

  Lord Preston laughed. “Ben, you’re going to get lost in the shuffle. Speak up, my boy, before there’s another incident with soup or dumplings or mutton.”

  “The mutton is fine.” Lady Grace’s voice was rimmed with frost. “I’ll trouble you to mind your manners and keep to your own plate, William.”

  “Sir!” Ben blurted. “William, I have intentions of going into the ministry. I’ve talked it over with Victoria, and she’s in agreement.”

  “Ministry? What?” Lord Preston put down his fork. “Ben Whitecross an Anglican priest like Jeremy here?”

  “Not exactly Anglican—”

  “Please, my boy, enough. I much prefer to hear ‘father’ from you.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just that this is something of an announcement I want to make.”

  “Not Anglican? What then? Baptist? Presbyterian?”

  “Methodist, Father.”

  Both of Lord Preston’s eyebrows shot upward. “Do you say so? You mean like John and Charles Wesley? Like circuit riders on the American frontier? Count von Zinzendorf and the Moravians?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s this about, eh?” Sir Arthur looked back and forth between Ben, William, and Jeremy, who was sitting at the table next to Emma. “Not another air race?”

  “The Wesleyans, Sir Arthur,” Jeremy said, still working on his soup. “Ben is thinking of being ordained with them after a period of training.”

  Sir Arthur narrowed his eyes at Jeremy from behind his glasses. “And what will you do, sir?”

  “I?”

  “Are you thinking of becoming a Wesleyan as well? Is this going to be a family thing?”

  “Not at all. I’m content in the Church of England.”

  “‘Amazing Grace’ is a fine hymn, very fine.”

  “Yes, well, that’s by John Newton, Sir Arthur, an Anglican.”

  “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing; Love Divine, All Loves Excelling; Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.”

  “Quite right, Sir Arthur.” Jeremy smiled and laid down his soup spoon.

  Tavy whisked spoon and empty bowl away.

  Jeremy continued. “We use those hymns by Charles Wesley all the time at our church in London.”

  Emma folded her hands under her chin. “I adore ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ Charles Wesley wrote those words too.”

  Lord Preston nodded at Emma and then looked at Ben. “What about the airline, young man?”

  “Kipp is buying me out for my share of the partnership. With Michael and I both gone from the picture, he’ll become the head of the business. I expect he will hire more managers.”

  “But you’ve always loved flying.”

  “Part of the plan is that I will keep one of our old SPAD S.XXs. It’s quite lovely to fly, Father.”

  Lord Preston smiled at the use of the term. “Thank you. And you feel a call to preach the gospel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You wish for a Methodist church or are you content to be a lay preacher?”

  “I should like a church to pastor. Victoria shares with me a certain enthusiasm for missionary work in Africa, so perhaps we’ll wind up there in due course.”

  “Africa? The Dark Continent?”

  “There have been Methodist missionaries going there for generations.”

  Victoria put a hand on Ben’s. “I was shocked
when he first raised the subject with me, Father. But when I thought back, I did remember he used to talk about the Methodist Church before he left for the war. So it’s been in his head and heart even before flying.”

  “Has it?” Lord Preston caught Ramsay’s eye. “What does the eight-year-old think, hmm?”

  Ramsay’s somber face suddenly brightened with his smile. “I should like to see lions and gazelle and wildebeest, Grandfather William.”

  “Ha! And what about Timothy?”

  The five-year-old with his mother’s auburn hair and green eyes didn’t smile at all. He looked at his grandfather with a serious face. “I should like to see giraffes and elephants and God in Africa.”

  Lord Preston chuckled. “And so you shall. Undoubtedly, so you shall.” He turned back to Ben. “Sounds like the Lord’s hand is on your entire family, Ben.” He went back to his mutton. “Capital.”

  “Shall I reheat that in the oven, m’lord?” Tavy asked, now standing at William’s shoulder. “Or bring you a fresh portion piping hot?”

  “Hmm? Not at all. I don’t mind cold mutton.” He glanced up from his plate a moment. “Well, well, Jeremy, did Ben bring you up here to play the role of HMS Rodney to Ben’s HMS Hood? Are you the big guns meant to ensure the First Sea Lord’s opinion is properly swayed to support his endeavor?”

  Jeremy sipped his water. “Ben and I have talked about this, naturally. He sought out my advice as a clergyman. Ben is a fine man, but I wondered if he truly was, um, cut out to be a man of the cloth. Just like most in the family, I saw him as a dashing pilot and, after the accident, as a man who simply wouldn’t quit. I ought to have expected God had his hand on Ben’s life for him to come so far and surmount so many obstacles.”

  “So the two of you have discussed this?” asked Lord Preston.

 

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