A parish. Of his own. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t expected that to be the news.
“St. Anthony’s? But Pfarrer Mitchell has only been there for a year. Change again will be hard on the parishioners.”
“That’s true. And he is well loved there. But his order in the Philippines has need of him, and has called him back into their service. This will be difficult for him too.”
Florian had settled in well at St. Elizabeth’s. He’d been serving the Lord here for six years. That was a long time in one place. After the fourth year passed without being assigned to a parish of his own, Florian had accepted this was where he’d be staying for a while. He liked it here. It suited him. Big parish, lots to do.
“Florian, are you distressed?”
The older priest watched him closely.
“Nothing to be distressed over. God’s will be done,” he replied quietly.
“The parishioners here will miss you greatly. I will miss you even more. Your dedication to your vocation has been a blessing to me.”
Without warning, a bright flash of lightning lit the room, dramatizing Pfarrer Schimke’s statement with flair. Both priests looked to the window and the storm brewing outside.
“Thank you. I will miss everyone here also, very much.” The boom followed quickly behind.
“Any news about Bernhard?” Pfarrer Schimke asked, the subject they’d been speaking of signed, sealed, and delivered.
“I’ve made numerous calls to everyone I can think of. To all of his old haunts. Not a trace. I have the feeling though, he is nearby.”
“I will pray for a quick resolution to this problem.”
“Thank you.”
Pfarrer Schimke rubbed his arthritic fingers for a moment and stood. “I won’t keep you any longer.” He looked over to Florian’s desk and the array of papers and books stacked alongside. “Rest is important too. Why not finish up in the morning when you’re fresh?”
Florian forced a smile. “Good idea.” He saw his pastor out and leaned against the closed door, his room quiet again.
He didn’t want to go. Six years was time enough to forge strong relationships, friendships, important ones. Not only that, but he’d started activities and groups for his parishioners. Scripture studies. Growing them from a mere few to fifty and sixty and seventy strong.
That was hard to give up.
He cooked with them, ate with them, laughed with them. Prayed with them. They were his family. His sisters and brothers. His children.
No. No, they aren’t.
They are God’s children.
He was the laborer of God’s vineyard.
But then, there was Günther and Johann. He was a part of their life now. St. Anthony’s was two hours away.
He could tell Bishop Vonnegut he was happy here at St. Elizabeth’s. That he’d rather stay put. His superior was an understanding fellow. If it were doable, it might be arranged.
Perhaps.
His gaze landed on a picture of Jesus carrying His cross up to Golgotha.
But…what about obedience?
And sacrifice?
He crossed the room and went into his bedroom. Slowly, he sat on his neatly made bed, creasing the green and brown plaid coverlet. He removed one shoe and then the other, and scooted them painstakingly under the bed. Disregarding the cold, he unbuttoned his shirt and pants and stripped down to his shorts. In the bathroom, bare feet on the cold slab floor, he splashed his face and chest with ice-cold water and toweled dry. He quickly brushed his teeth and slipped into bed.
It felt good.
Cold, but good.
He closed his eyes. Usually his mind was restless, thinking, solving the problems of the next day. Tonight he was exhausted. Tonight he was asleep as his head hit the pillow.
Saturday morning came quickly. Florian hurried through his morning office, with thoughts of last night’s announcement encroaching on his every prayer. He rushed through his toiletries and descended the steps into the rectory kitchen. Frau Kleimer was already there, working over the hot stove, wisps of her salt and pepper hair sticking to her damp brow.
“Guten Morgen, Pfarrer Christove,” she said cheerfully. “Wunderbarer Tag heute.”
“Ja, Gott sei gepriesen,” Florian answered, agreeing with her on the beautiful day and praising God for it.
He’d already set up the meeting room adjacent to the kitchen the night before for the group he was expecting. A small table with the coffeemaker in one corner and alongside, a long table covered with a nice white linen tablecloth and a small vase of flowers. It was for the danish and other morning sweets he would offer after Mass and before the beginning of the English class. The chairs were neatly set in rows and there was a chalkboard in front, next to a podium.
Everything was in order. He switched on the coffeepot and the coffeemaker filled with water for the hot chocolate, then joined Frau Kleimer in the kitchen.
She muttered merrily as she dusted the top of some strudel with powdery white sugar and set the confection on a doily-covered platter. She worked swiftly, a baking and cooking machine, and an element of St. Elizabeth’s rectory for the past twenty-five years. She’d been here longer than any other person.
A buzzer sounded from the small shelf above the butcher-block counter, sending her rushing to the old stove. She cracked open the oven door and, being careful not to get burned, peeked inside.
Saturday mornings were a favorite for all the rectory’s inhabitants. Frau Kleimer never disappointed. There was always something scrumptious to take pleasure in along with a hot cup of fresh coffee.
Pfarrer Blauberg, being retired, spent many an hour chatting away, drinking coffee and watching her bake. He washed dishes for her sometimes and even set the table. They were a good team.
It was six forty. He bid Frau Kleimer good-bye, knowing she’d have all the necessary things set out when the service was over. He watched her for a few seconds longer than necessary, his heart a bit heavy and sad. This cheery little person had been a big part of his life for the past six years.
She must have felt his stare, for she looked up from her labor, a question in her eyes. She knew him well.
“Ja, Pfarrer Christove?”
He smiled and nodded reassuringly. “Danke, Frau Kleimer. Danke sehr, für alles.”
She blushed in her usual way and went quietly about her duties.
Chapter Eighteen
Günther arrived in St. Elizabeth’s sacristy exactly at the same time as Florian. On his way there, Günther had picked up Johann, as the child was on the schedule to altar serve. As Florian prepared, Günther opened the lectionary to the correct readings and set the hefty volume on the ambo. He gathered the chalice, paten, purificator, and corporal and set them on the small table next to the wall in the sanctuary. He filled the wine and water cruets a third of the way, lit the two altar candles, and turned on the lights.
With everything in place, Günther took his place in the pews. As he knelt in prayer, he was surprised after a few minutes when Camille slipped in beside him.
“Good morning,” he leaned over and whispered into her ear. His delight in seeing her vanished quickly when he looked into her eyes. “Are you okay? Is it Sasha?”
Her face was flushed from her walk to the church in the cool of first light. Her hair, clipped up haphazardly, was uncharacteristically messy. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all.
“I haven’t heard from Helene, or anyone yet this morning. I just wanted to come to church. I want to go to Communion.”
What had her so rattled? What had taken place to cause such anxiety? There was something she wasn’t saying. She looked very distracted.
“If you hurry into the sacristy, Florian can hear your confession. But you must go now for there is only a minute or two before the service will begin.”
“Oh my gosh, I can’t go now. I haven’t been for years.” Upset, she looked away. “Another thing I’ve forgotten about.”
He smiled, t
rying to ease her anxiousness. “You know better than to be frightened. There is absolutely nothing you can tell a priest that can shock him. They’ve heard it all before and more than once. We’re all sinners.”
She looked at him now like he had an answer to every question she’d ever had. Like her whole world depended on his next word. She chewed her lower lip, trying to decide if she should take his advice.
“I don’t remember how.”
He took one of her cold, quivering hands into his own. “I have a better idea. I think you need a little time. Think about it, pray about it, and then go to reconciliation after the English class this morning. My brother hears confessions from ten until twelve every Saturday morning.”
“Saturday?” she asked, looking a bit more relaxed now that she didn’t have to run up into the sacristy this moment.
“Yes.”
She looked at him intently.
“He can never, ever reveal a thing you’ve said to him. You know that, right? He can’t even ask you about it later.”
She nodded. “I’m still nervous.”
He chuckled softly. At least now she was smiling again. “I know. We all get nervous. I get nervous. My confessor is my brother, so you see, you don’t have it so bad.”
The service was over in thirty minutes and Günther gave the announcement inviting all those interested for sweets and coffee to the meeting room in the rectory. The gathering room came alive with people, Frau Kleimer in the mix, giving orders and hugs.
There were eight children present that came faithfully to class every week, and two new young women he’d never seen. Günther had heard about them from Florian and was glad to see they were brave enough to show up. They stood in the back of the room, eating and keeping to themselves.
This was the social time before class started. Pfarrer Blauberg, now up and moving, was talking with Camille who seemed composed now, relaxed and laughing. Still, Günther wondered at what had had her so spooked this morning when she’d arrived. It wasn’t just the thought of revealing her soul to a priest, he was sure. There had to be something more. For now, he was just pleased to see her enjoying her time with them.
Frau Kleimer approached with a tray full of strudel slices. “Herr Christove,” she offered Günther, holding the tray out so he could take a slice.
“Vielen Dank,” he replied, taking one. He shoved the whole slice into his mouth, experiencing the flavor. He swallowed the delicious treat and meandered through the children until he was standing by Camille and Pfarrer Blauberg. One look from Camille, and he knew he had done something funny. She laughed and brushed at the powdered sugar goatee that was left behind on his chin for all to see.
“Oops, sorry about that.” He laughed. “It’s just so good I can’t control myself.”
“Ah, it’s the English teacher,” Pfarrer Blauberg commented. Günther wondered if the old priest realized that he said that exact same thing every time they met.
“Are you staying for class?” Günther asked Camille.
“Yes, I think I will.”
“Good. And then reconciliation at ten?”
Her brows scrunched. “Yes.”
“Even better.”
Camille approached Father Florian. “Good morning,” she said, still feeling a bit shy around him. “Do you think I could use your telephone for two quick calls? I haven’t yet had a chance to get a temporary cell phone.”
“Of course. You can use the one in my office. It will be quieter for you there.” She followed him down the hall. They passed the kitchen and a room that resembled a library. He stopped at the last door.
“Here you are.” He pointed to the phone sitting on his mahogany desk and pulled out his chair. “Make yourself comfortable.” He paused as if a thought had struck him. “Do you need help with the call?”
Camille dug for her address book, squirreled away somewhere in her backpack.
“Oh, no thanks. I think I can manage it on my own. And both calls will be local, I won’t be calling overseas,” she said so he wouldn’t think she was charging up a costly phone bill.
His expression said he hadn’t given that idea even a moment of thought. He closed the door and was gone.
Now alone in his office, she set her address book down and looked around. A picture of Günther and Johann with Father Florian in his vestments was next to his computer. They stood with big smiles and she thought it must have been taken at Johann’s First Holy Communion. Another photo had Father Florian surrounded by six young women, two holding babies, and all looked very happy.
The whole room was very orderly. It smelled good. Like books. In the quiet, she could hear laughing and talking coming from the meeting room down the hall. On the back of the door hung a poster of old rice parchment, the sentiment written in calligraphy with Mother Teresa’s Rules for Humility.
Camille read it twice, amazed by its wisdom. She wanted a copy for Chocolate Blossoms when she went home. Flipping her book open to W, she looked up Dr. Williamson’s private number he’d given her on Wednesday. She dialed the number.
“Dr. Williamson,” he answered.
“Doctor. This is Camille Ashland, from the United States. Stephanie’s sister-in-law that you saw on Wednesday. I’m sorry to disturb you on the weekend.”
“Yes, Camille. That’s not a problem. Is everything all right with you?”
“No. I had an episode last night. I’m not sure if it was another heart attack or not.”
There was silence for a few seconds. “Where are you now? And why didn’t you call right away? How many hours has it been since you experienced the first pain?”
“I’m at St. Elizabeth’s Church in town. I didn’t call right away because I had something important I needed to do.” Mass. “It’s been about five hours since it happened.”
“You should have called me immediately.” Annoyance laced his tone. “I’ll meet you in my office in half an hour.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Williamson, but I can’t be there that soon.” She knew she was sounding overly assertive and boorish. “I can be there around noon.”
His tone switched from friendly to stiff. “That’s not advisable. But if you insist, there is nothing I can do. I just hope you aren’t putting yourself into more danger. Will you have a ride there?”
She knew she’d made him mad. “Yes, I’ll take a cab. And, thank you so much.”
They hung up.
Now, she needed to call Stephen Turner and cancel for tonight.
Her first real date in eight years.
Oh, well. She wasn’t too disappointed. Hopefully, he’d take a rain check. Until she talked with Dr. Williamson, she had no idea what she should and should not be doing.
The number rang three times and then his voice mail picked up. She left a message canceling without going into detail, guaranteed to tick him off too.
She hung up and relaxed in the chair, glad that that was over. She’d wait to call Stephanie at home until she knew something definite. No use getting her all up in arms without first having all the facts.
Now that she’d warmed up to Father Florian’s office for a few minutes, she felt right at home. She liked its sense of balance and its holy knickknacks.
Standing, she went over to his bookshelf where row upon row of heavy-duty theological books waited, the kind that would take a lifetime to read even one. Some were in English and others in German. She ran her fingertip down the shelf and scanned the titles looking for ones she could read. The Confessions, St. Augustine. The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Anna Catherine Emmerich. History of the Church of Christ, Henri Daniel-Rops. The Divine Romance, Fulton J. Sheen.
The list went on and Camille was deeply moved. All these books and she’d never even heard of one of them. How could she be so ignorant about her faith? What had she been doing all these years?
Drawn to a volume with a bright red binding, Saints Are Not Sad by Frank Sheed, she took it from the shelf and opened it, flipping through the pages. S
he recognized a sketch of St. Francis only by the animals that surrounded him, but still, she felt a diminutive burst of wonder for that one small accomplishment.
Camille gasped when the door opened up without warning. In the alcove stood the rectory cook, the one she’d seen passing around the apple strudel.
“Oh, Entschuldigen Sie bitte,” the old woman apologized, looking startled.
Camille held her hand to her chest as if she could hold her heart inside. She felt the compelling need to explain her presence here. “I’m using the phone,” she said quickly. “Father Florian said it was all right.”
The woman shook her head, not understanding.
Camille replaced the slip inside and set the book back on the shelf. She hurried to the desk and pointed to the phone. “Telefon.”
The German woman nodded demurely but the look in her eyes asked, “What then, are you doing at his bookshelf? Going through his things?” She slowly backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.
Camille listened to the woman’s retreating footsteps as she scuttled down the quiet hall, probably going to report. Camille gathered her address book and was about to put it back into her backpack when she thought about Helene. Would one more call be taking advantage? Had Father Florian sent the cook to see what was taking her so long?
Quickly she looked up Helene’s number. She agonized for a few minutes whether to call. She didn’t want to intrude, but then, she was going to be out most of the day and Helene had told her that she would call and let her know what was going on with Sasha.
Better to err on the side of thoughtfulness, she decided, and dialed.
The phone rang five times without answer. Camille was about to disconnect when Helene picked up.
“Hi, it’s Camille.”
Helene’s voice wavered slightly when she returned the greeting.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your morning but I’ve been worried. How is Sasha?”
“We are not sure yet. They think…”
Helene started to cry. Camille could hear Wolfgang in the background trying to comfort his wife as she struggled to compose herself. “After all the tests, the doctors believe that Sasha is—autistic.”
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