The Gathering Storm (37 page)

I was sheltered in the crowded Oxford tube station one afternoon when I pulled out Eben's "White Rose" poem to read it once again. Scanning the roses, I studied the beautiful calligraphy inscribed within the Thirty-six. On the back of the page I had written the words of the Rabbi from Bevis Marks Synagogue:
Thirty-six Lamed Vav.

Behind me two elderly men remarked, "The most peaceful place
in London is the basement of the British Museum Reading Room. I spent four hours yesterday in the vaults reading an early copy of
Treasure Island.
The air-raid siren sounded and we barely heard the bombs."

The next day I made my way to the British Museum Reading Room and was directed to the basement, which now contained long reading tables. I presented a slip of paper to the balding, bespectacled research assistant. Only two phrases that I had gleaned from the Bevis Marks' rabbi were written there:

Legend of the Lamed Vav—Hebrew tradition
36 Righteous men—Christian tradition

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I did not write down the question I had asked Mama so many years ago in Germany: "Who is Eben? Or rather,
what
is Eben?"

Mama had answered me like a poet on the Texas prairie might: "Eben is a nightingale. His ancient voice sings to the world in the darkness."

I had not thought of Mama s words for years, but now the memory
ignited a question that burned in my heart. I had no expectation that this visit to the library would yield any helpful material in my quest. I took my seat among a dozen silent scholars who were surrounded
by mounds of books and papers. The only sounds were an occasional
clearing of a throat and the rustle of turning pages. In such a peace
ful place, who could guess that there was a war going on?

After nearly thirty minutes the research assistant emerged from the vaults. He was pushing a trolley heaped with antique volumes and bound documents, each of which contained some reference to my question. A printed list of page numbers and passages was placed before me like the main dish of a banquet.

In a whisper that seemed loud in the absolute silence he said, "These are the most recent volumes. Nineteenth-century copies and commentary mostly. The originals are stored away safely in the vaults. There are many ancient manuscripts in the Vatican Library, of course, but the war, you know. Mussolini's Italy now in the Axis...Rome maybe difficult to reach."

I thanked him, too loudly. My voice echoed in the dome. An aged
scholar looked up from his book and glared at me in disapproval.

Top of the stack was a Talmudic commentary dating from the nineteenth century. I opened my lined notebook and began to write as I scanned the pages of one book after another.

Lamedvavniks:

The source of the legend is the Talmud. The Lamed Vav
Tzadikim (Hebrew: Y'l 2TJFB), "36 Righteous Ones." Abbre
viated to Lamed Vav, this name refers to 36 righteous people. This concept is rooted within mystical Judaism.

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296 ~

The source is the Talmud itself:

As a mystical ideal the number 36 is intriguing. It is said that at all times there are 36 special people in the world, and that were it not for them, all of them, if even one of them was
missing, the world would come to an end. The two Hebrew
letters for 36 are the lamed, which is 30, and the vav, which
is six. Therefore, these 36 are referred to as the Lamed Vav Tzadikim; the Thirty-six Righteous. This widely held belief, this most unusual Jewish concept, is based on an ancient
Hebrew text that in every generation 36 righteous "greet the
Divine Presence." The number 36 is twice 18. In gematria (a
form of Jewish numerology), the number 18 stands for "life,"
because the Hebrew letters that spell chai, meaning "living,"
add up to 18. Because 36 = 2x18, it represents "two lives."

As I pondered the idea of eighteen pairs of lives...two lives, two witnesses...something my father had taught us when we studied the book of Revelation came suddenly into sharp focus.

And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth.... And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them.... And after three days and an half the Spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them. And they heard a great voice from heaven saying unto them, Come up hither. And they ascended up to heaven in a cloud; and their enemies beheld them.
⁶

With Papa we had puzzled over who the two witnesses could be. Were they prophets like Moses and Elijah at the Mount of

6 Revelation 11:3, 7,11-12

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Transfiguration, returning again to deliver God's final messages to the defiant earth? The account in Revelation certainly pictured "two lives" as holding forth for righteousness and judgment, prophesying against rebellion and sin. Clearly a Jew would define them as Lamedvavniks.

I returned to my study.

The purpose of Lamedvavniks:

Mystical Judaism, as well as other segments of Jewish faith, believe there are, at all times, 36 righteous people whose role in
life is to justify the purpose of mankind in the eyes of God.

In folk tales the Lamedvavniks appear at critical times and by their spiritual powers succeed in averting the impending dangers to a people from the enemies that surround them. They return to concealment as soon as their task is accomplished.
The Lamedvavniks, dispersed throughout the world, do not even
know each other. Rarely, one is accidentally "revealed," but the secret of their identity must not be disclosed. Some believe the
concept to have originated in the Book of Beginnings (Genesis),
chapter 18, where it is recorded:

"And the Lord said, 'If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for them.'"

After hours of study, my search had only begun. One reference to the legend led to another and another. After four hours I leapt to Christian traditions. The medieval tales of Prester John made up one tall stack of books. Reportedly a descendant of the Magi, the Prester John legends were exaggerated and filled with fantasy. I laid these accounts aside. Then an old, familiar volume of Eusebius caught my eye. I remembered the day Papa had made me put down the poetry of Keats and had set me to the task of translating a passage from Eusebius.

I set to work again. I found that even here, in the writings of the early church fathers, there were references to those who had been

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healed by Jesus still living two hundred years later. The writings of Irenaeus, Polycarp, and Eusebius spoke of those who had reached a great age among the first generation of Christ followers.

The lights blinked and from behind his desk the librarian announced that the library would soon be closing. The precious volumes must be returned to the bombproof vaults. London was burning down around us all through the first weeks of that hot and terrible August. Only thoughts of seeing Eben again illuminated my heart through the long, dark nights.

After evening prayers, I walked to my now usual meeting with Eben,
preferring daylight to the mole tunnel of London's Underground
system. Silver-skinned barrage balloons floated like giant fish above
the city.

In the daytime London's scars were as visible as the painted faces hiding the disfigured features of the Tin Noses Brigade.

I reached the top of Primrose Hill and stood beside an antiaircraft gun. From my high vantage point I looked out across the villages of London. She was a grand old lady, built upon the swales and gentle rises of the terrain. A low, horizontal city, London had grown up around lush green parks and genteel squares. Her buildings were topped by a forest of clay chimneypots. Structures of red brick or white stone were tarnished by centuries of coal smoke and streaked by time.

Despite the soot, London had aged gently. She resembled a dignified grandmother who had suffered a fall, leaving her unable to get her hair done, or put on a dress, or find her lipstick.

Like the ladies who now inhabited her, London was a city without makeup. There was no hiding her scars in the daylight. Beyond Regent's Park I saw whole blocks of shops and houses damaged or destroyed. Wedding cake spires of churches, rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666, were collapsed, charred, and roofless.

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Yet what London lost in beauty, she gained in character. For the
proudest of reasons, she remained proud. There was grandeur in London's poverty. She wore stoicism like a medal earned in battle. Nearby, a row of five houses bordering the park had been hit. Walls still standing, they were windowless, gutted, and boarded up.

I watched as three women picked through the bricks, salvaging what they could of a lifetime's possessions. Uncommon courage was common these days.

Behind me I heard Eben's familiar voice. "They say a robin's nest ravaged by a hawk will be rebuilt beneath the eaves by the next generation of robins. But perhaps we are the last."

I turned to him, somehow not surprised he knew what I was thinking. He smiled, stooped, and kissed my mouth. "You're late," he said.

"I'm early," I protested.

"I've been waiting for you...centuries." He pulled me against him and kissed me again. His broad back was strong and hard. I was vaguely aware the soldiers who manned the gun were watching us. Pushing him away, I turned and crossed my arms over my chest—a gesture that warned there would be no more public kisses this afternoon.

He laughed at my petulance and placed his hands on my arms. I was stirred by his warmth against my back. Leaning my head against him, we stood observing the city in silence for a time.

After long moments, he spoke. "I have always loved her."

"London?"

"Her strength. No, her
dignity
is a better word."

"Wounded, but still standing."

"Beautiful still. Beauty with that sad, tortured look, like the faces of those who have suffered terribly and who are capable of enduring terrible suffering."

For a fleeting moment I thought of Varrick, then my father and
mother. So many others, gone. My soul mirrored the trio who picked
through the bricks of their broken house in search of something

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familiar. Small treasures plucked from the midst of cataclysmic destruction were reason to rejoice.
The miracle of an unbroken tea
cup. A photograph. A book. A pair of gloves. First one shoe and then
the other...

Eben whispered, his breath soft in my ear, "I was reading last night. Emily Dickinson. I found you in the pages. You, Lora. I see you. I hear your heart. In you, Christ's love sings.

"If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain.

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin,

Unto her nest again,

I shall not live in vain."

I inhaled slowly. Had I ever felt such love from anyone? His eyes
perceived in my soul a beauty I could not perceive in myself. "Eben?
This is what you see in me?"

"Lora, I have not dared to speak of love to any woman—not since, well, not for a very long time. But now..."

"Why now, Eben?" I did not dare look at him.

"I think, perhaps, time grows short for the world. For me, at last. I have seen so much—too much. But never anything like this. Surely the hour glass has run, and in these final moments, I am permitted to love again."

"Permitted? You speak in riddles."

"Love...you...Lora. No riddle in that." He did not turn me but stepped around to block my view of the broken city. He held me in
his gaze. "Open your eyes. Look at me. Eye to eye. We meet now, in
this time and place. I am a man like other men. Do you understand? There is no time. I am in love with you."

I saw my reflection shining in his haunting green eyes and knew
he was speaking the truth. He lifted my chin and kissed me gently.

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Warm coils unleashed within me. Breathless in his embrace, I could not answer. My knees weakened. I nodded, loving him as I had never loved anyone. Did Eben believe, like so many others, that the world had reached the breaking point?