The Gathering Storm by Bodie Thoene & Brock Thoene

Author:Bodie Thoene & Brock Thoene [Thoene, Bodie & Thoene, Brock]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Christian, Historical
ISBN: 9781602859340
Google: IkM3cgAACAAJ
Amazon: B004LE7P54
Publisher: Center Point Pub.
Published: 2011-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

I

n search of Eva I scanned the restless refugees who packed St. Mark's Church. Built for the orderly worship needs of 1,500 Victorian parishioners, the Greek-revival structure was never meant to house five hundred homeless hungry people who had lost everything but their clothes.

Against my will I remembered the fires of Kristallnacht in Berlin. The ashes of Jewish homes had filled my nostrils. We had left everything behind that night...everything. Surely the strong presence of my mother would be with me tonight, as comforting to many as she was for me.

I had so little strength to offer. I walked between two worlds: the world where Varrick peopled my memories and the hollow, accepting emptiness of my loss.

Where was Eva?

She was nowhere to be seen.

Confusion reigned in St. Mark's. The dark cherrywood pews on the floor of the church were being transformed into beds by a mix of quarreling French, Dutch, and Belgian refugees. They had somehow managed as we had, amid the chaos of war, to sail across the Channel in small vessels. Women and children dominated the population. A handful of American expatriates were among them. The cacophony of foreign languages and the cries of hungry, exhausted children were deafening.

Jessica, who had mastered five languages in our family's travels, scanned the crowd and spotted a harried, dowdy British matron

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serving tea near the altar rail. It was clear she spoke only English and a smattering of unintelligible French. Every nuance of communication was lost to her.

A Belgian woman with two small boys whining at her side asked in clear Flemish where the lavatory was located. The Brit grimaced at the rafters and tried to comprehend, then replied in fractured French, "No. No, thank you. Patient her prevail. Tomorrow he bathe."

The refugee blinked in horror at the butchered verbiage. "Tomorrow?"

"Oui." The British matron seemed pleased to have communicated successfully.

The Belgian spread her hands in exasperation. She gestured emphatically at her squirming little boys, then firmly complained, "Tomorrow, too late!"

The tea-server tried another approach. In very loud and carefully pronounced English she said, "PLEASE TAKE YOUR TEA AND BE SEATED. WE WILL FIND A PLACE FOR YOU TO SLEEP SOON." She sighed and muttered to herself, "Somewhere." The matron continued to dole out weak tea in mismatched cups to a line of weary and anxious exiles.

Shalom tucked into the crook of one arm, Jessica grasped the Belgian lady's and marched her to a narrow passageway flanking the narthex. Together they discovered two lavatories. Jessica bid the grateful mother adieu and made her way back to a queue of other dejected supplicants yammering in French at the hapless matron. In precise language Jessica stepped up and directed the women and their young ones to the toilets. The troop evaporated.

"What did you say to them?" the tea attendant asked in wonder.

With a smile, Jessica introduced herself. "I'm Jessica. This is my sister, Lora. Both our husbands and our father were killed fighting the Nazis." Jessica's matter-of-fact pronouncement dissolved any suspicion.

The matron managed, "I'm dreadfully sorry for you both.

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