The Gathering Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

together in Papa's study to discuss how to quietly evacuate Jewish children from the inevitable persecution we all knew was coming.
    I hovered in the shadows of my loft like a little bird as they held endless discussions about Hitler. As they speculated about how long Hitler could last, I memorized the tilt of Eben's head and the gestures of his beautiful, square hands as he spoke.
    All the guests at the White Rose celebrated the news that the black American sprinter, Jesse Owens, beat out Hitler's Aryan athletes at the games.
    The events of the Olympic Games in Germany I relegated to unreality. Nothing mattered but my plan to find some moment alone with Eben so I could tell him I loved him.
    I noticed that every morning he strolled a mile into the village to buy a newspaper. As summer drew to a close, I realized I was nearing my last opportunity to confess my feelings for him.
    I rose early and, ahead of Eben, hurried up the lane. About halfway to the village, I found a shady spot beside a pasture where Hafflinger mares grazed with their foals. I sat down to wait. After a half hour, when he still did not come, I became entranced by the sight of the colts galloping across the field. I did not hear Eben's step behind me.
    He spoke my name. "Lora?"
    I blushed. The warmth of desire uncoiled in me. I felt my heart pounding. Everything I wanted to say fled from my mind.
    "The horses," I said, gripping the fence rail.
    I felt him come near. "Beautiful," he said in a wistful voice.
    I turned. My voice caught. "Eben..." I faltered. "I love you."
    He lifted his hand, as though he would touch my cheek. He smiled down into my eyes as if he had never known an unhappy moment. "White rose. So beautiful. So young."
    "Not so young."
    "Centuries too young, Lora."
    "You aren't yet thirty. I heard Papa say so," I protested.
    When he held me in his gaze for a long moment, I knew he had thought about me. "You are a memory, Lora...so familiar. Another lifetime. Another place. A different world...it might have been."
    "Why not now, Eben?" I threw myself at him.
    He plucked my arms from around his neck and stepped back. "Go home now, or I shall tell your father." Turning on his heel, he strode off angrily.
    I wept in the forest for the rest of the day.
     
     
    On Friday afternoon, Frau Helga Thoenen made preparations for a Shabbat meal. Her dinner was an elegant affair. Long tables were set up on the lawn of the White Rose Inn. I helped her spread white tablecloths and set her fine china. Sterling silver gleamed in the golden sunlight of the late afternoon.
    With a smile she inspected our work and said to me, "Soon it will be the rose hour." She held up an instructive finger. "But where are the roses, my dear?"
    I blinked at her. Three vases positioned as centerpieces were empty. "I'll gather them."
    She placed a basket and shears in my arms. "Three dozen precisely. Thirty-six white roses. Mind the thorns."
    I examined the flowers, choosing only the most beautiful blossoms on the rose tree. Perhaps I took too much time at my task. A string quartet was already setting up their music stands when I arrived back at the tables. Frau Helga wore a beautiful sky blue frock, while I was still in my work clothes. Other guests, elegantly dressed in party clothes, began to emerge from the cottages.
    Frau Helga seemed pleased with my selection of blooms. "Well done, Lora. I'll set them out. You'll want to wear your prettiest dress tonight, I think."
    Eben drew my attention. He was wearing white linen trousers and a blue pinstriped jacket with a red tie. I was certain his clothing was chosen as a salute to the American and British athletes in the Olympic games. He leaned against the railing of his porch, gazed off at the still water of the lake, and inhaled deeply.
    I had never seen any man so handsome.
    Frau Helga noticed my wistful look toward Eben. "He will sing for our company tonight."
    "Eben sings?"
    "Eben is a nightingale, my dear. He sings like an angel.