The Gathering Storm Read Online Free PDF

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