From the Millennial Star, July 1944 —

Woman in the News

By Edith Russell

As I write, there is a little Scots woman on her knees outside the door of the “Star” office, busily washing a somewhat indifferent piece of linoleum. She is the sort of person whose courage is manifested by her trundling along every morning, pushing the pram in which her very small baby sleeps, to Ravenslea, there to assist in ‘doing’ for its inhabitants. Mrs. Reid never talks very much. I see her sometimes when I am on my way out to Ludo Press and she smiles and says “Good morning.” I don’t think she is even interested in the weather. She has a job to do, and talking is by the way.

I mention Mrs. Reid because I like her sort of courage. You would like it, too. I like the way she determinedly props Baby John in the sunshine on the fair mornings and in the porch on not-so-fair mornings, and then goes in to make the hall shine with all the quiet enthusiasm and energy of an Eisenhower attacking the second front.

And, mind you, the marshaling of her forces is such, that minor distractions like Baby John howling his head off, are not permitted to interrupt the awful process of justice. The hall must receive fair treatment so that all visitors may have a welcome undiminished by spot or stain.

When the war is won I dare say medals will be distributed pretty lavishly, but it may happen that Mrs. Reid will be overlooked. That will be a pity, for her quiet work of scrubbing, polishing and making beautiful at least one home in the land of Britain, deserves the sort of recognition which makes even a medal seem inadequate.

-ooOoo-

From the Millennial Star, August 1944 —

Farewell, Ravenslea

By Edith Russell

There are trees in London, massive horse-chestnuts, oaks and exotic magnolias. Ravenslea looks out upon an avenue of them, green and heavy, in England’s fitful weather sometimes drenched in sunlight, frequently dark and deluged by the rain; always beautiful, incredible, like a flower growing in asphalt.

The first day it happened, Ravenslea was browsing in unexpected sunshine. There was a noise like bees in the air . . . my mind played with the memory of Mendelssohn’s “Bee’s Wedding.” I looked up, idly curious, and saw the small noisy plane pass over the noon-drunk trees. When the explosion shattered the quiet I felt a thrill of shock. The trees were still, the sunlight shone greenly through them. It was peaceful . . . but over to the north a tall pillar of yellow smoke was rising to the sky. The Robots had arrived.

I slept, that night, in a room overlooking the quiet grounds of Ravenslea. There were tall windows open to the sky. … I remember it was very blue. The siren wailed shortly after eleven, and after the first explosion I fell asleep, not peacefully, but with a sort of determination not to be afraid. I remember saying to myself, soundlessly but emphatically: “He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”

At five o’clock I felt a pressure on my arm which told me that my missionary companion was wakeful. There was an angry drone, heavy and startlingly near, approaching the window. I lay, tense as wire, waiting. … “He that keepeth Israel …”

The engine stopped, and the quiet was hideous. I tried to breathe, and was afraid to. The silence was shattered into a million splinters as the Robot fell, two hundred yards away. The windows were no more, but lay in long slivers of silver on the unrelieved blackness of the carpet. Dust was thick in the air. … I got up.

“Put on your shoes, dear.” The sister from much-bombed Lowestoft was practical though shaken. Outside, the sound of cars and A.R.P. services speeding to the rescue made me wish I was not cursed with imagination.

At six o’clock, Elder Cunningham came. “It’s the Jews’ Home,” he said.

I felt sick. ” He that keepeth Israel . . .” There was something pitiful, stark and tragic about it. . . . They had suffered so long.

Sunday was a day of delicious heat and breezes that combed the trees with capricious, untidy hands. There was the sound of running water in Ravenslea and the bustle which accompanies the preparation for a baptism.

A small white-clad figure delivered himself into the hands of an Elder brother as overhead the Robots droned. There was no fear in that room, only the peace of God. The heart of the Mission was beating steadily, quietly. Outside, the siren sobbed like a woman in whose heart there is sorrow and no hope.

They were not sad days. True, the ceiling had caved in, the windows were gone and the front door had a detached look about it. but the Holy Spirit still breathed there.

We left Ravenslea when it became impossible to live there. The ship was badly damaged. The captain was loth to leave. But we could do no more.

This morning we knelt together in the Chapel at Handsworth, united and safe. I remembered Ravenslea among the trees. . . .

“He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”