Masao and Jason stepped forward, even as the rest stood still. Edward saw tears in the eyes of many; heard a few faint sniffles.
“Are you sure,” he asked them. “Jason? Masao? Is this what you really want?” He glanced to his sister-in-law, Me’chelle; Charlotte and Clayton. If Jason was unable to return, what would happen to them?
He glanced at his own children… he thought of Masao’s grandson.
If he, Jason, Paloma, and Masao walked through that doorway into a never-return situation, how would everyone else cope?
How would they handle the loss of four people.
“The boys can come stay with me,” Me’chelle told him. “And as much as I’d love to have Cherish over, too, I just….” She looked down, her blonde braids tumbling around her head.
“Cherish can come stay with us; it would do good for she and Izzie to get to know each other,” Midge told him, and Justice nodded. “Besides, that way she can hang out with Mr. Courageous, too… the boys being around one dog, and Cherish around a different one will give them practice to see how they really do, since the Italian Greyhound idea fell through.”
Edward nodded at them, tears in his eyes.
If he never saw his children again, would they still remain close? Would the Rutherford and Morrison families stay in touch for their sake?
“We appreciate it,” Paloma said, her words sounding like she was choking on them. “More than you can ever know.”
And with that, she squeezed his hand and took another step toward the wavering doorway. The bright shimmer of it was receding, and it seemed to solidify more as they approached it.
Masao and Jason moved closely behind them, and, single file, they formed a line, their hands connecting. Edward, Paloma, Jason, Masao, from first to last, clasped hands as they took the last few steps toward the edge of the doorway.
Edward looked back one last time and, taking a deep breath, stepped across the threshold.
Justice looked at the doorway in wonder as he tried to figure out the logic of the situation they were in: there was none. None of his training had prepared him for magical doorways; for mirrors that presumed to do more than just reflect. And even though he had been a witness to Rosemary’s transporting, he still, to this day, years later, didn’t understand how it could be happening.
He had been briefed about the history of the mirror. He knew that it had been formed differently than the other eleven Timothy had created to commemorate twelve dreams God had granted him. Timothy, who they now knew was the son of Zorba and Eunice, and grandson of Aghazar and Lois. The mother and grandmother were mentioned in the Bible, but the father and grandfather were not.
Did that mean they both died before Paul came on the scene, or was there some other reason for the omissions?
Justice shrugged. Did it matter in the long run? They knew what they knew, and that was that.
He glanced back at the doorway that shimmered in the mid-day light. Did it matter what made it possible? God could do as He chose, couldn’t He?
The same mirror that had brought so many changes to their world - that brought new people to them, and saved Rosemary’s life, helping transform her into Calico – was now being used to project a doorway… to where?
He longed to go, but he knew…
It would be irresponsible of him. He had too many people depending on him; too many commitments; there was too much at stake in his everyday life to take the leap of faith he so wished to.
And yet, wasn’t that what a leap of faith was about?
As he watched first Edward, then Paloma, Jason, and Masao walk through the doorway, he heard one gasp after another.
He looked at Midge, pleading.
“I wish I could-”
“Do you really feel you must,” she asked him before he could finish his thought. “What if you never come back.”
But he somehow knew… if he went through the doorway, he knew he would see his loved ones again. How, he wasn’t certain; when, he didn’t know, but he nodded.
“Then go,” she told him. “Don’t let me stop you… much as I want you to stay.”
With one final, long kiss, he ran to catch up with the others, stopping right before the doorway. He took a deep breath, and stepped inside…
And what he saw took his breath away as a crystalized-looking stairway appeared before him. He could make out the others ahead of him, and he carefully grabbed the railing to his right, hoping to catch up. There was a sense of humble boldness within him, rising, but he also sensed if he called out, the stairs might break and they would fall.
And within moments, the four ahead of him stopped as he continued to walk toward them, tiptoeing up each step in his Reeboks, thankful for good skid-control.
Masao turned around, looked him in the eye, and gasped before sending him a smile that stunned him.
Wherever they were headed, he would need to trust those with him; they would need to trust him. And even though he had hitchhiked into the party moving forth, he knew they would understand wholeheartedly.
Perpignan, France… May 10, 1707
Galya moved slowly down the stairs, her stomach roiling within her.
She had seen women with child getting ill, but had always thought that, perhaps, at least for some women, that it was to gain extra attention where there was little to be had. For others, the reality of their situations was all too real, and death was the price paid for the love of carrying a child.
Jerusalem was not a place to show yourself different; not a place to stand out as a woman if you needn’t. She knew that, for most, there was little talk of childbearing and what little there was hadn’t been enough to prepare her.
And now, here she was… feeling ill with every movement, day and night.
Would her entire pregnancy be like this now? Now that she had begun to sense this uneasiness; this daily queasiness that never took a break or gave her reprieve?
Her Great Uncle, Timothy, would have laughed, at least at first, but would he not also have been compassionate with her plight? His own wife, Nessa Keshet, it was said, had difficulties eating enough during her pregnancies; that the reason she died birthing Rebecca was that she didn’t sustain enough energy from her food to survive.
Was that also why her cousin Inbal had been ill? Had there been something in Nessa Keshet’s blood that made it hard for her granddaughter to carry her children, as well?
And what of my own mother, she thought as she inched her way further down the stairs. Will my destiny be as hers was? As Nessa Keshet’s?
Her own dear mother, Abigail, and her Savta Cidra – oh, how she missed her grandmother! – both had one child that lived; the rest had died. Savta Ioanna, on the other hand, bore nineteen children for Saba Divri, of whom Galya’s father, Osher, was the eleventh.
Her thoughts drifted to the three brothers and two sisters she would never come to know… each given a name for the hearts of those who recalled them as they were placed in cloth and buried.
First, there had been Tal; she barely remembered him, but his name was spoken with the others who had gone before, week in and week out, with their family and friends as they prayed.
Then, there had been twins: Zion and Zusa. A girl and a boy. Rare to be born together, they had lived three days. Galya had been five at the time.
Soon after, her mother had borne Niv, but there had been no breath in him from the start. And one last time, when Galya was eleven, her mother had birthed a girl child, Adva. For two weeks, she lived, and then, in the midst of the night, had slipped away from them, not strong enough, her father had said, to hold on any longer.
And after that, Osher had declared he would no longer go to his wife. For the first time, Galya saw tears in his big brown eyes that glimmered with anger and pain, not for the people of God, but for himself; for their family.
“Mon Chéri, pourquoi ne faites-vous pas appel à l'aide? Quelqu'un aurait certainement marcher avec vous,” she suddenly heard her husband say from beh
ind her.
She jumped, nearly tumbling down, but for his arms coming around her.
How had she not heard him so close to her? How had she not smelled his scent, or sensed his nearness? Had she been so lost in her thoughts all else drifted away?
A fleeting thought – seeing her father waving goodbye as he made his way to look for work in a distant city – came over her with her next wave of nausea.
That she had never seen him again still tugged at her heart… perhaps now, more than ever when she wished, somehow, her family would know she was alive and happy and carrying on the traditions of her family.
The feel of her husband’s arms around her now-swelling middle grounded her as she continued her painstaking progress to the bottom step. With his help, she sat down there to breathe.
“I will go find cook and have her come to you,” he said, the corners of his mouth turned down into a frown and his eyes soft. “And I will make sure that one of the women comes to attend to your needs.”
She smiled weakly at him.
How could she tell him her fears? But how could she not?
After a few moments, he nodded at her and she watched him walk easily in the direction of the kitchen.
If only she had the right words to say, and not break his heart, she would speak them.
Or would she?
Gaspar’s thoughts moved back to when he’d grasped for his wife as she began to tumble, startled at his words.
Had she really been so occupied in her thoughts that she had not heard him approach?
Just thinking of what might have happened had he called out to her and not been within reach of her made him shiver as he continued down the hallway toward the kitchen. He could still feel Galya’s back pressed into his chest as he’d pulled her to him, her feet beginning to slide from underneath her as he carefully lifted her long enough to get her feet back where they belonged.
And he’d panicked.
In the blink of that moment all may have been lost, but, thank God, he’d been able to hold onto her.
Elodie St. Pier, a rather large flaxen-ringletted woman who had replaced Therese in the kitchen as second cook, moved toward him as he swung through the door.
“Ah, vous effrayer Elodie avec vos mouvements rapides,” the woman said, referring to herself in an Anglicized French accent, by name as usual – which irritated him, as usual. “Qu'est-ce que vous avez besoin à ce moment de la journée? Comment peuvent Elodie vous aider avec vos besoins?”
She gave him a smile that seemed a little too friendly and he did his best to ignore it as he replied.
“Elodie, mon épouse est dans le besoin de moyens de subsistance. Comme vous le savez, elle n'est pas bien manger ces jours. Certains bouillon, peut-être? Au moins au début?”
The Englishwoman frowned a moment before righting her face again.
How was it that Gaspar had not seen the jealousy within her with every mention of Galya? Or was it merely disapproval? Did she think, somehow, she would be more fitting a wife than the one he had chosen?
It gave him pause as the woman fumbled for an answer.
“Je vais envoyer Sonya avec soupe à sa meilleure convenance à la trouver, puis. Je suis trop occupé pour de telles choses, de la nourriture pour tout le monde. Vous ne pouvez pas sentir le poisson, les pâtisseries, la venaison J'ai été préparer avec Mlle. Delfine?”
And he could, indeed, smell the pleasant aromas filling the air. But what made creating a meal for everyone else more important than making sure his wife and child were being properly fed? That Galya was getting enough to eat, with all her tossing and nausea, and that she was fed and hydrated was more important in his eyes right now than all the venison and pastry in the world.
How could he make Mlle. St. Pier understand?
“"Voir que vous le faites, et que, à l'avenir, Mlle. St. Pier, assurez-vous que quelque chose est à portée de main pour mon bien-aimé vous aider chaque jour. Pas seulement une fois par jour, mais prêt à tout moment. Comme commandant en second de cette cuisine, c'est maintenant votre plus grande priorité. Laisser le reste de la préparation de repas à Delfine et Sonya - elles sont soeurs, et ils sont habitués à travailler côte à côte, ” he told her. “Your main duty until my darling wife safely delivers our child, and then until both mother and child are safely into recovery, will be to care for those needs. Do I make myself clear?”
The woman before him blanched, then turned as red as the bricks comprising the bread oven.
“Yes, Monsieur,” she mumbled. “Perfectly.”
The look on her face as she walked away was quite the unhappy one, but it couldn’t be helped: he had tried to tell her he was not interested in her in more ways than one in the few weeks she’d been with them.
As he walked away to check on his wife, he heard the woman behind him continue to mutter unintelligibly under her breath.
As much as he wished he wouldn’t have to, it seemed he might need to replace her sooner than later.
This was unacceptable.
Boston, Massachusetts… May 10, 1942
Steven took a few deep breaths before ushering his family outside the little church building. The rest of their extended family, and then some neighbors, followed them outside, though it was no surprise.
Those who followed were either Jewish, like his wife, or in some way related to him, and by extension, to her.
The words of Pastor Fredrickson continued to ring in his ears and through his mind as they grouped off and walked toward the apartments where most of them lived. He and the men trailed the women and children, who were off in their own conversations and silences, accordingly.
Listening as Liraz Schwartz, Malina Schindler, Jolanta Pytlak, his wife Shannen, and his sisters-in-law Opal, Lily, and Jerusha began to chatter quietly about the service they’d just walked out on gave him pause.
And then, he thought of the children; each one susceptible to hatred as well as love, to grace as well as spitefulness, and he sighed. What would they take from this day? From this talk of war and hatred of their people, and their family?
He thought a moment of some of the men he knew on the baseball team and shuddered. A couple of them had warned him things were getting worse, and he hadn’t listened. Was it because he’d been so concentrated on resisting the urge to gamble, or because he wanted to ignore the reality around him?
“The nerve of a man of the cloth going and outright speaking against the Jewish people,” he heard his youngest brother Peter say, shaking him from his reverie as they turned the corner and continued on. “I’ve heard that the Pope has done the same thing; even turned his eyes from what is happening in the war. It’s just… unfathomable.”
Steven glanced over to the younger man walking at his side, who stood a good two inches taller than himself, and then beyond, to Shiloh. Arkadiusz Pytlak, Konrad Schindler, and his brother Michael were behind them, Michael’s voice raising ever few moments in protest.
Steven sighed as he tried to clear his mind of all he’d heard about the war. Why did people think war solved anything, anyway? And what was it about the Jewish people that was so bad?
Oh, he knew the theories some people tossed around like so much manure and hogwash: that because the Jewish people of Jesus’ day were who called for His death, that all Jews should pay. But to what purpose? That was a group of people, and they were who they were. God had a set purpose for the crucifixion of His Son so that the people might be saved, each who believed in and on Him. And God still had a plan, didn’t He?
Steven highly doubted that war against His originally chosen people was part of that plan.
“Hey, are you with us,” Shiloh asked him all of a sudden. Steven shook his head, trying to clear it as he noticed everyone else had turned again while he stood still.
Even poky Konrad Schindler, whose mind was exhaustively fast, but his body slower than most people Steven had come to know, had passed him up. Only Shiloh remained, patiently waiting as Steven stood, fr
ozen to the spot.
“Coming,” he said, finally. “Coming.”
Shiloh watched as Steven moved his limbs, almost in slow motion. The brown-suited lean limbs moved toward him even as he heard the voices of the rest of their group moving further away.
For someone who wasn’t technically Jewish, his brother-in-law was taking things even harder than many of the rest of them. But for what purpose?
Actually, in a lot of ways, he really is, isn’t he, Shiloh thought suddenly as he followed Steven toward the others, who were just entering the apartment building where Peter and Lily lived.
I mean, he grew up with us; he listened to the stories and learned many of the traditions. All of the people aside from his brothers that he truly loves and cares about are Jewish. How can I not have seen before how much he has become one of us? Not just my brother by marriage and my brother in Christ, but my brother as a man who appreciates the Jewish culture?
He swung the glass and oak door inward to follow the rest of their group and, taking the stairs two at a time, was able to catch up to them at the third floor, at Peter and Lily’s apartment. Thankfully, no matter how long they were visiting, he, Jerusha, and their children only had two blocks to go to get back home, themselves. A few of the men leaned into the door, which stuck more often than not, and it opened. The men had to hold the edges of the doorway to keep from flying inward with it.
Opal, Jerusha, and Malina were huddled together whispering, and it looked as though they had been crying. Jerusha stood nearby, waiting for him to enter with them.
“What are we going to do about it, I ask ye” he heard Konrad – a tall, lanky man with red-brown hair, nearly a foot of beard, and a slight limp – asking as he approached the group filing inside. “You can walk from the church today, but we do not dare to confront the pastor and risk even more what's going on with us. We have heard from others that things are much worse than the news suggests, and the news, it is bad enough!”
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 61