by Murray Pura
“The university is one thing, Elizabeth. The British government is an entirely different matter. Peter and James were in the right in defending Jane’s honor. Winston has been in the wrong time and time again. So now even if he is in the right about the threat of Nazi Germany, and I believe he is, no one will listen to him, and no one will listen to his supporters. Moreover, I am not close to Prime Minister Chamberlain, you know that. I do not have his ear. There is nothing I can do, my dear, except pray.”
She reached over and grasped his hand. “Then I wish you would do that, William. I read Agatha Christie to force my thoughts elsewhere, but I’m terrified at the violence Robbie and Shannon are facing in Palestine, I’m distraught over young Charles being raised and molded by that brute Lord Tanner, and I’m in a panic the war in Spain will precipitate a war in Europe. I have nightmares about those horrid German planes dropping their incendiaries on London and Liverpool just as they did on Guernica.”
Lord Preston patted her hand. “Now, now, calm yourself, my dear, no bombs are going to drop on London.”
“They bombed us in Folkestone in the last war, didn’t they? And zeppelins bombed London more than once. And those Gotha aircraft killed eighteen schoolchildren in East London.”
“Yes, of course, it was dreadful, but there is no war between England and Germany now, nor does there ever need to be. My sources tell me Herr Hitler is concerned about being equipped to resist France and Russia. He does not consider England an enemy. We fought beside Blücher at Waterloo, remember?”
“Do you recall the last war? The Somme? Vimy Ridge? Verdun? Who fought against England then?”
“I know.”
“And if you respect Winston, aren’t you concerned about his warnings against the war machine of the Third Reich?”
“Of course.”
“Then I wish you would pray. For Robbie and Shannon and Patricia. For Charles. For our country. Pray and do my poor soul some good. Agatha Christie can only do so much, bless her heart.”
“Indeed.” He held her hand in both of his.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.
October 12, 1937
Jerusalem
DAD AND MUM
A QUICK CABLE TO LET YOU KNOW ALL IS WELL. THANKS FOR THE PACKAGE AND CADBURY CHOCOLATE. IT REACHED US ON PATRICIA’S NINTH BIRTHDAY. SHE IS GROWING LIKE A WEED AND LOVES SWEETS. THINGS ARE TENSE SO YOUR PRAYERS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED. YOU WILL HAVE HEARD THE ACTING DISTRICT COMMISSIONER IN THE GALILEE, A CHAP NAMED LEWIS ANDREWS, WAS KILLED BY ARAB GUNMEN TWO WEEKS AGO. WE TAKE ALL THE PRECAUTIONS WE CAN AND FEEL QUITE SAFE IN JERUSALEM SO PLEASE DON’T WORRY. SHANNON WILL WRITE YOU A LONGER LETTER IN A FEW DAYS. GOD BLESS.
MUCH LOVE,
ROBBIE, SHANNON, PATRICIA CLAIRE
November 15, 1937
Jerusalem
Patricia pointed from the terrace of their house. “That palm. That is my favorite one.”
“Ah, is it?” asked Shannon. “And why is that?”
“I like the way the fronds fall away from the top. Very prettily.”
“Very prettily?” Shannon smiled. “Well, I guess now that I look at it closely, you’re quite right.”
Robbie walked out onto the terrace with a tall glass of orange juice in his hand. “Why, that’s been my favorite palm tree for years.”
Patricia whirled to look at him. “No, it hasn’t.”
“It has. Ever since you were a baby.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t it dominate the skyline so nicely? Of course it’s much taller now than it was nine years ago when you were born.”
Patricia smiled. “You never noticed it before today. You can see beautiful palm trees in all directions. You’re just teasing me.”
“I’d never do that over something so serious. The Patricia Palm, I have always called it.”
“Always?” Patricia laughed.
“Are you packed for the road trip?”
“Not quite yet, Papa. I wanted to add a few things.”
“Yella, yella—hurry up! Pretty soon the driver will be honking his horn.”
“No sergeant would honk his horn at a colonel.” But Patricia raced off into the house.
Robbie offered Shannon the orange juice, and she took a long drink.
“Bless you, it’s chilled. How did you manage that? I thought the electricity was on again, off again.”
“It is. So the sergeant fetched us a block of ice, and I turned the refrigerator back into a proper ice box.”
“Bravo.” She put her arms around his neck, glass of juice still in one of her hands. “Are you really taking us to the seashore, Colonel?”
“The Mediterranean one, yes. Not the one in Galilee.”
“It’s safe and sound?”
“There’s nothing there but an army camp. The ocean will do us all good. You know, like taking a dip at Brighton.”
“I trust the water is warmer than at Brighton.”
“One can only hope.”
“And we’ll have your bodyguards along?”
“They’ll be riding in vehicles ahead of us and behind us.” He took his orange juice from her and sipped it. “It kills two birds with one stone. I need to have a sit-down with the commanding officer at the camp, and you and Pat have been cooped up in the city long enough. It’s a quiet area. There’s nothing at all worth attacking.”
“That’s grand. The fighting makes you forget how beautiful the land is.”
He kissed her on the lips. “But not how beautiful the women are.”
“You taste like orange juice.”
“So do you.”
She kissed him back. “Why are you so playful today?”
“It’s such a relief to get away, isn’t it? Even for a day. And to think of building Pat’s first sand castle, splashing her…it’s quite something to contemplate simply doing normal things in Palestine, normal British things.”
“They’re normal Irish things and normal human things too.”
Patricia suddenly appeared on the terrace, knapsack over her shoulder and a floppy cotton hat on her head. “Ready.”
“Right.” Shannon took the glass from Robbie again and drained it. “Let’s head down there, Tricia.” She glanced at Robbie. “You coming, love?”
“I just need my briefcase,” he said. “I’ll be right along.”
Robbie went to his study. His revolver was lying on the desk, and he slipped it into the holster on his hip and snapped the flap shut. He checked the documents inside his briefcase and snapped it shut as well.
“I forgot the bucket and shovel Papa got me!”
Robbie glanced out a window. Patricia was running back into the house. Shannon threw up her hands and stepped into the car as the driver held open the door. Soldiers had parked armored vehicles in front of the car and behind it. Robbie turned away as he heard his daughter running up the staircase.
“Have you forgotten the beach things?” he asked as he stepped into the hall.
She ran past him. “They’re under my bed.”
There was a rumble from somewhere, and then the house shook, sending plaster raining onto Robbie’s head and shoulders. He heard Patricia cry out, and then a roar and a blast of heat swept through the windows and rooms. Despite a sharp pain in his leg, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered back up the stairs. Patricia was sitting on the floor holding her head in her hands.
“Are you hurt?” He picked her up in his arms. “Are you cut?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know! What’s happened?”
“Let’s get out of the hous
e.”
“Where’s Mum?”
“She’ll be outside.”
He went down the stairs with his daughter, but not to the front street. He went out the back door to the garden. Patricia had buried her head in his shoulder and her arms were around his neck, so she didn’t see what he saw when he craned his neck to look over the wall to the street. Dust hung white in the air. The car was gone. Both armored vehicles were gone. Rolls of dark smoke rose from a large crater, mingling with the dust. Whistles blew. He heard the loud sound of many men in boots running. There were shouts.
“What is it, Papa?” asked Patricia. “What is it?” Tears cut through the grime on her face. “Where’s Mum? Where is she?”
“Shh. Shh.” Robbie walked away from the wall and farther into the palm trees and plants of the garden. “It will be all right. Don’t be afraid. Everything will turn out all right.”
November 19, 1937
Kensington Gate, London
Lord Preston stood gazing down into the fire in the front parlor.
“He’ll be home in a fortnight, the prime minster assured me. Transfer of duties. They’ll plant him at a desk here in London. Best thing for him, really. And for little Patricia.” He glanced back at his wife. “She’ll need us, Elizabeth. How she will need us.”
Lady Preston was in a chair, her eyes dark and swollen, a handkerchief crumpled in her fist. “We prayed. What good did our prayers do? Our family has had more than its share of suffering, William.”
“All the prayers in the world won’t make this life heaven. It’s a broken place, a shattered house. Think of how Jesus suffered. Think of how the apostles suffered. It’s a pitched battle, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want a pitched battle. I want peace.”
“What makes you think Robbie or Patricia would have survived if we hadn’t prayed? What if our granddaughter hadn’t rushed back into the house? What if all three of them had climbed into the car together?”
Lady Preston closed her eyes. “Wasn’t the pain of Ireland enough? Why did she have to experience the same sort of hate and fighting in Palestine that she did in Ireland? Why twice in her lifetime, William?”
“I don’t know. Except to say there are many places on this earth where the same sort of tragedies are played out again and again. It’s common to the human race. Many go through the same trials and tribulations. At least you and I can walk through them with God, walk through them to the other side. I do not believe Shannon is dead. She is alive, Elizabeth, more alive than we are. She is like an angel. No more sorrow. No more heartache. If she can see us, she knows that her husband and daughter are coming to us, coming to England, and that they will be greatly loved and cared for. She will have an overwhelming peace.”
“I’m glad someone has it because I don’t. I suppose if I didn’t believe in God I might be better off, for I would have expected nothing more than the back of the hand from this world. But I prayed to God and expected something better, and now I’m bitterly disappointed. First Albert. Then Christelle. And Michael. Now Shannon. It makes me wonder if there will be any of us left in two or three years.”
“Come, my dear, don’t talk that way. God is with us. Our children survived the war. Our grandchildren are hale and hearty. Robbie and Patricia are coming home to us. Thank God for that. Grasp ahold of your faith. It must be your anchor in such a time as this. It must or you will be swept away.”
“Shall I sing a stanza of ‘It Is Well with My Soul’? Would that please you? Is that what you’re looking for?”
“What I’m looking for is your Cornwall blood. What I’m looking for is the faith that stands with God and light and hope in the face of all fires and floods and pestilence. Your forefathers had it, and they dealt with far greater horrors than we have had to bear up under. Where is yours, Elizabeth? Where is yours now that our family needs it the most?”
She sank her head into her hand. “I don’t know, William. I honestly don’t. It’s lost at sea. It’s vanished into thin air. It’s in the grave along with Albert and Christelle and Michael and Shannon. It’s gone.”
December 11, 1937
St. Andrew’s Cross, London
“Hullo, Jeremy.”
Jeremy came out from behind his desk. “Robbie. I’m so glad you’ve made it here for our meeting. When I saw you the other night I wasn’t sure if you meant it or were just saying something you knew would make your mother happy.”
“What? Getting together with you and talking it out? I meant it all right.” Robbie shook Jeremy’s hand. “I really must do something or I’ll go mad.”
“I understand. How’s Patricia?”
“She’s with Cecilia. She’s just turned eight, you see, so they get along famously. It’s a gift. I thank God, it’s a gift. Patricia needs so much more than I do. She’s so young.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Please, take a seat.”
Jeremy took an armchair next to Robbie, the one man in black with his white collar, the other in full uniform.
“I can brew some tea,” offered Jeremy.
Robbie waved his hand. “Perhaps later.”
Jeremy nodded. “Right.”
“I honestly don’t know what to say or what help you can offer, Jeremy. I feel my mother ought to be here instead of me. She’s experiencing a towering rage against God. All I feel is a bleakness. I’ve seen combat. I’ve watched comrades die. I’ve killed. But this is different. I’ve lost my wife. I could protect the Jews of Jerusalem but not her. Why didn’t I order that the car be inspected? Why didn’t I tell them to lift the bonnet or open the boot? Why did I let her go down first with Patricia? Shouldn’t I have been there ahead of her, ahead of both of them, making sure everything was in order? After all, there was a war going on, wasn’t there, the Arabs against the British and the Jews? Why was I taking things so casually? Why did I feel my family and I were immune? You see, Jeremy, for me it’s not a matter of where was God. I keeping asking myself over and over again, where was I?”
Jeremy peeled off his black suit jacket as he came into the vicarage that evening, tossed it on a chair instead of hanging it up as usual, walked to a window, and looked out at the street he’d just walked down for half a block. He watched the cars and trucks and people move past and did not turn away even when Emma leaned her head against his back.
“Ha’penny for your thoughts, Reverend,” she said.
“They’re not even worth that much, really. There’s nothing profound going on. I’m pretty empty-headed. I didn’t have anything to give to Robbie to settle his soul. It strikes me I didn’t have much to give Kipp when Christelle died or Libby when Michael was killed in that plane crash either.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is true. I can’t bring people back to life, can I? Or tell them the moment they cry a hundred thousand tears their bad fortunes will be reversed and everything will be as lovely as it was two or three weeks or a month before. That’s what folks who are grieving want, Em. Miracles. Words of comfort aren’t miracles.”
“Of course they are.”
“Oh, they might change a person’s mind, but they don’t change what’s real. Shannon’s gone, Em, and I can’t bring her back with my prayers or my faith. Hatred took her…love couldn’t keep her. God has her, but Robbie and his daughter are left all alone.”
“They’re not alone. They’re with us.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it isn’t. But it’s much better than nothing. Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve been blessing people for years, our family included. The words matter, the prayers matter, your messages matter. The mind and heart are real places too, Jeremy, not just what happens all around us.”
“I wish I could be as sanguine as you are.”
She put her arms around him. “I have enough of that for both of us. And equal measures of faith and hope besides.”
January, 1938
Kipp and Caroline’s townhouse, Camden Lock, London
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“So Montgomery’s had a little man.” Caroline laughed as she hung up the telephone. “Libby’s so excited you’d think the baby was her own.”
She came into the kitchen, where Kipp was finishing his breakfast and enjoying a cup of coffee. He lifted the coffee cup in salute.
“Capital. What’s the lad’s name?”
“Well, it isn’t Skitt, thank goodness. Paul Terrence William.”
“You’re joking.”
“William for your father. Terrence for Terry, of course. And Paul for Skitt’s dad. Did you know he flew in the war?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Shot down twice. They awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross in September, nineteen eighteen.”
Kipp set down his cup. “What? Skitt never said anything about it when he was working at Ashton Park during the war.”
“I gather his father and him were at odds with one another at the time. Later on they sorted everything out. He’s gone now. Do you know he was almost forty when they gave him the DFC? But they thought he was thirty.”
“Good for him. I’ll have to remember that trick.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. No flying for you in another war. No flying for anyone in this family. If it comes to a head with the Italians and the Germans, we can let the other young men of Britain sort things out.”
Kipp cleared his throat. “Speaking of the Germans, I’ve been tapped to go to Berlin for a couple of weeks. Sort of a liaison position, you know—keep the RAF in good relations with the Luftwaffe, that sort of thing. I head over in March.”
“In March? You?” Caroline sat down across the kitchen table from him. “Did you ask for this posting?”
“No. Actually I thought they’d send Ben. But I got the nod.”
“Refuse.”
“I can’t refuse, love. This is the RAF, not the airline Michael and Ben and I ran. I’m no longer my own master in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ll see Charles, won’t you?”
“I will. If he’ll see me.”
“You can’t go, Kipp. You mustn’t go. I know what will happen. You’ll get into all sorts of trouble on my account. You’ll demand Charles return to England with you. Get into a fistfight with Lord Tanner and have yourself thrown into some horrid Nazi jail.”