My Brother, the Pope

by Georg Ratzinger

  II

  Marktl

  (1925-1929)

  My earliest childhood memories come from the time when we lived in Marktl am Inn. The official residence of the policeman, thus of my father, was located there in a spacious house on the marketplace, the “Mauthaus”, built in 1701. At the time of our move, I was a little more than one year old; my sister was already four. The central point of Marktl was and still is its church. Today only a part of it is preserved, since the church building from that time was partially incorporated into a new building that went up later.

  The place of worship goes back to an endowment from the pious Berengar III Graf von Leonberg, who died in 1296. It was originally built entirely in the Gothic style and dedicated to Saint Oswald. After it was struck by lightning, the church and with it a large part of the village were destroyed by fire in 1701, but one year later reconstruction began. As the years went by, the newly constructed church became too small and was therefore torn down in 1853 and rebuilt. In 1964, there was a fourth building project, into which parts of the church from the nineteenth century were integrated, among them the neo-Gothic altar from 1857.

  I can remember that it had an oratory, practically a rood loft on the side. From there Mother often pointed to the choir loft, where Father sang with the church choir. The pastor at that time was a Father Koppl; his assistant or vicar was one Josef Stangl, who is said to have been a rather strict man. Father Koppl, on the other hand, was charming and kind. He had a housekeeper named Olga, who owned a dog, to which I often brought bones that were left over from our meals. But the one person in all Marktl who impressed me the most was the town clerk, Andreas Eichner, who also signed my brother’s birth certificate. In addition, he was the church musician; he played the organ, conducted the church choir, and on the side conducted a brass band as well. He was a short man, “Andresl”, as we called him, but he became, so to speak, my first great model. He himself played the largest instrument, the tuba, and everyone used to say, “There is little Andresl with the big music!” We were well acquainted with him because our father sang with him in the choir. Of course at that time we children were still too young to go to church regularly, but often our parents did take us along.

  Marktl am Inn around 1930

  With us in the house lived one of the first female dentists there ever was in Bavaria. Her name was Amelie Karl; she was single and had a traveling practice as a dentist. Probably the “Fräulein”, as she was called, was the only one in the village to own such a newfangled motorcycle. When she drove off in the morning, it made a terrible racket that caused quite a sensation throughout the village.

  In Marktl, our sister, Maria, went to school for the first time. There was an elementary school there that was located quite near our house. I always waited then for my sister, since now in the morning I was alone at home with Mother, who of course was busy with household chores or shopping. When Maria came home, we often quarreled but then made up again quickly, as children do. She was a very orderly person; with her everything always had its precise place, whereas I was a little genius of disorder. With me it seemed that chaos prevailed, but I always knew precisely where I had to reach when I needed something. My sister often straightened up my area and packed everything away nicely and neatly, and then I could not find anything anymore. So of course there was an argument. Yet that is often the case; girls are inclined to be clean and tidy, while boys are rather sloppy, and I was sloppy, I will be the first to admit it. But usually we got along well. A classmate of hers, whose name was Marei, died in the first or second grade, which at the time affected us children deeply. The story was that Marei had become seriously ill because she had always eaten snow. We were warned, therefore, not to eat any snow. I do not know whether there was any truth to it or whether it was just an old wives’ tale.

  One thing I still remember well is the attic of our house in Marktl. A lot of books were stored there—they must have belonged to a former resident—and they made me curious. So we always wanted to go up to the attic and at least look at the books, since we could not yet read. We discovered a drum up there, too, but I think our parents forbade us to play with it. In any case, I later got a drum for Christmas that particularly fascinated me. Whenever the sun shone on it, it magically produced different patterns on the drumhead. So there must have been something very special inside, I thought, and finally I poked through the drumhead. With that, the fine drum was broken, of course, and my first, still somewhat hesitant attempt to learn how to play a musical instrument had failed for the moment.

  Then came the day about which so much has been written, that April 16, 1927, when my brother Joseph was born. It was Holy Saturday, and it is said to have been cold with a lot of snow—terrible weather, then. Yet all I remember is that I woke up and noticed that I was alone. Actually I was not used to sleeping alone; at that time my parents and my sister still slept beside me. But that night, or else in the early morning hours, I was suddenly lying alone in bed. No one had awakened me, as they usually did, and instead I heard the noise of hectic activity. Doors slammed, rapid footsteps resounded in the hall, people were talking loudly. When I heard my father’s voice, I said, “Father, I want to get up!” But Father said, “No, you must wait a while; today we have a little baby boy!” At the time it was all a bit puzzling for me.

  The future Pope Benedict XVI was born at 4:15 A.M., and his baptism followed that same morning at 8:30. Because the godmother, Anna Ratzinger, could not be notified quickly enough, a nun by the name of Adelma Rohrhirsch filled in for her.

  In those days, the liturgy of the Easter Vigil was celebrated on the morning of Holy Saturday. Because the blessing of the baptismal water and the rite of baptism are an integral part of that liturgy, the parents did not hesitate long: “Well, the boy is already here now, so now he’ll be baptized.” In some way that was a special coincidence, a good omen. Only the other two children, Georg and Maria, had to remain back at the house, because it was snowing so heavily their parents feared that they might catch cold. The mother stayed home, too; she was still too exhausted by the birth to venture out into the snow. So the newborn, the first to be baptized with the holy water that had just been blessed, was christened “Joseph Aloisius”. “On the threshold of Easter, but not yet through the door” (SE 42) became from then on the metaphor for his whole life, which from the very beginning was thus immersed in the Paschal mystery.

  The neo-Gothic baptismal font, made of bright Danube limestone with six angels’ heads, over which little Joseph Alois was held on that occasion has fortunately been preserved. It had been banished at first to the yard of the rectory when the church was rebuilt in 1965, and then the inhabitants of Marktl put it in their local museum in 1992. Research at that time found that it was the work of a sculptor in Munich, Anselm Sickinger (1807-1873), who had taken part in the construction of the Victory Gate in Munich. After the election of Joseph Ratzinger as pope, it “was allowed” to return to the church. Since then it stands before the neo-Gothic altar of Saint Oswald, a remnant from the former house of worship. On Easter Sunday 2006, which coincidentally fell on the Pope’s birthday and the anniversary of his baptism, it was used again for the first time for the baptism of a child.

  After a few days, I, too, was finally allowed to see my little brother Joseph. He was very slight and delicate. Father had hired a nun to help Mother during those days, because her health was still considerably impaired after the birth. This sister then tended, bathed, and dressed my brother. What worried us at the time was that when he was supposed to be fed, he could not keep his food down. She tried all sorts of things, but he did not like any of it, until the idea occurred to her to give him oatmeal. And lo and behold, he was able to keep the oatmeal down and even liked to eat it. It practically saved his life, for by then the sister was at a loss. Ever since, he has enjoyed oatmeal, as our father did, incidentally. My sister and I did not like it especially.

  On other occasions, too, unfortunately, he was often
sick. Once he even came down with a serious case of diphtheria, and then Father immediately called the doctor. It was a rather painful treatment; he screamed. On the day he came down with diphtheria, we were in our yard, where beautiful strawberries grew. Our landlord, the man who rented out the policeman’s residence, had the fine name of Narrnhammer and was an awfully nice man. When he saw that we children were fascinated by the strawberries, he let us pick a few. My brother chose an especially pretty one for himself, but he was not able to swallow it, because his nose and throat were all swollen and inflamed by the disease. He may have been one or two years old, I no longer recall exactly.

  At that time we had a good relationship with the owners of the house. Frau Narnhammer was a very cheerful person. I can still remember very well how she put her hands on her hips and laughed so loud that she roared. She had two daughters still at home. Often, when Mother was short on time, one of the two filled in and looked after us children.

  Across from our house and to the left was a little convent of the Sisters of Mallersdorf. A Sister Pia lived there, whom I particularly respected. She later became the Mother Superior for awhile. A short distance outside the town, the sisters ran another house, Saint Anthony’s House. Until a few years ago it was still owned by the order and served as a boarding school for homeless children.

  Once the nuns reported to our father that someone was stealing from their garden regularly. They had a large garden in which they grew the fruit and vegetables they needed for the children’s meals and their own. Father then tracked down the thief. In return, he received a big package from the convent, and Mother was very touched by all that was in it: sugar, flour, everything needed to feed a household. That was the convent’s gift to thank him for catching the thief.

  At that time in Marktl, there was Lechner’s Kaufhaus, a grocery store that was practically across the street from our house. Today it is occupied by a pharmacy. During Advent, we—with my sister on the right, me on the left, and little Joseph, who could not yet walk by himself, in the middle—always used to go over to look at the display in the festively decorated shop window. There, surrounded by evergreen branches, gold foil, and tinsel, were toys that children might like to have. What fascinated Joseph most was a bear that had a very friendly expression. We went then every day, despite wind and weather, to visit the little bear, because we all liked it, but Joseph most of all had taken it to his heart. He would have liked so much to hold it in his arms. Once the owner of the shop, a very nice lady, asked us in and revealed to us the little bear’s name: Teddy! Then one day, shortly before Christmas, we tried to visit the teddy bear again, but he was no longer there. My brother wept bitterly: “The little teddy bear is gone!” We tried to console him, but he was much too sad, and really we were, too. Then we went back home, quite disappointed.

  Then came Christmas and the exchange of gifts. When Joseph came into the festively decorated room where the Christmas tree stood, he was so happy he laughed out loud. For there, where the presents for us children were set out, stood the teddy bear at his place. The Christ Child had brought it for him. That gave the youngster the greatest joy of his life.

  Generally speaking, our family made a big thing of Christmas. The preparations already began with the First Sunday of Advent. At that time, the Rorate Masses were celebrated at six in the morning, and the priests wore white vestments. Normally violet is the color of the vestments in Advent, but these were special votive Masses that were supposed to recall the appearance of the Archangel Gabriel to the Mother of God and her words, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it done to me according to thy word” (Lk 1:38). That was the main theme of these “liturgies of the angels”, as they were also called, in which the appropriate passage from the Gospel of Luke was read. After we started school, we used to attend these Masses in the early morning, before classes began. Outside it was still night, everything was dark, and the people often shivered in the cold. Yet the warm glow of the sanctuary compensated for the early rising and the walk through snow and ice. The dark church was illuminated by candles and tapers, which were often brought by the faithful and provided not only light but also a little warmth. Afterward we went home first, ate breakfast, and only then set out for school. These Rorate Masses were wonderful signposts leading us to Christmas.

  Bernard Lechner’s store in Marktl, where Joseph saw his first teddy bear

  On the morning of December 24, we began first by putting together the family manger scene. Every year we were eager to make it even more beautiful. In 1929 we moved to Tittmoning, which was located on the Salzach, and along the river there were tuff stones that we used to collect. These are volcanic stones of several very different types: some had holes in them, others were grooved, while still others had bold, sharp corners, and with these one could decorate the creche marvelously. We then brought a whole basketful of tuff stones and built wonderful hilly landscapes with them. (My brother still has the little family manger scene with the tuff stones from Tittmoning; it is set up at Christmastime in the dining room of his apartment in the Apostolic Palace.) Then we obtained evergreen branches, which formed the background and contrasted nicely with the grayish stones, and scratched moss from the trees, which served as the pasture for the shepherds’ flock. Thus our creche took on a somewhat different appearance each year and was also expanded regularly. In some years, Mother bought additional figures, for instance, a few sheep or another shepherd and once even a sheepdog.

  In the afternoon, our mother told us we should go for a walk. Usually there was deep snow, and then we went sledding, while Mother decorated the Christmas tree. Late in the afternoon we returned, and then we prayed the Rosary first. Praying the Rosary was a usual thing in our family, often daily, but at least every Saturday. We knelt down on the kitchen floor, each one with a chair in front of him, leaning his arms on the chair, and one of us, most often Father, led the prayers.

  After the Rosary, we heard the sound of a bell ringing in the living room across the hall. There the Christmas tree stood, a little spruce tree, with the presents on the table. The sight of this, in the glow of candlelight, always made a deep impression on us. We used real candles that emitted a wonderful fragrance. The tree was ornamented with balls, angel’s hair, and tinsel, and also with stars, hearts, and comets that our mother had cut out of bright yellow quince jam. Then Father read the Gospel to us, the Christmas story according to Luke, and we sang Christmas songs, “Silent Night”, “Oh du fröhliche”, and of course “O Come, Little Children”. Once, in 1936, when I was already in high school, I myself wrote a little composition for Christmas. We three then performed it, my sister at the organ, my brother at the piano, and I with my violin. My mother was moved to tears, and even Father, although somewhat more level-headed, was impressed. From then on for a few years I regularly composed something at Christmas.

  Because we were so impatient, the exchange of gifts always took place in our house a little earlier than in other families. There was always something wonderful about it, an almost fairytale quality to it. Of course we did not receive any magnificent gifts, but mainly things we needed, for instance, articles of clothing, socks our mother had knitted for us herself, caps, or whatever we happened to lack at the time. Moreover, each one also got a plate full of cookies and prunes, dried pears and fruitcake. These were wonderful things, and even today we remember them with great joy.

  Of course we could all wish for something. I still recall what I received many years for Christmas. In 1933, when we were already living in Aschau, the Christ Child brought me a Fimoli-brand projector with which you could project whole series of pictures on the wall. In addition, I received three rolls of pictures, one about Altötting, one about the history of the ways in which the Cross has been depicted, and a third one about Rome. I was very happy with it. When the pastor heard about it, he asked me to illustrate with these photographs a lecture on Rome that he gave for the parishioners. In the Holy Year 1933-1934, he had ventured to make a pilgrimage to
the Eternal City but of course had not taken photographs. That was not customary at the time, and so I as a ten-year-old showed pictures of the sights and the most significant churches, which otherwise he could only have described; this naturally caused something of a sensation.

  In 1935, when I was in my first year at boarding school, I received a book of chant, the Liber Usualis, which was used at the seminary, and nevertheless, cost five reichsmark. It was a thick book with over a thousand pages, in which Latin text and the chant notation were printed. Joseph was quite impressed, because there was not a single German word in that thick book, but after all I was in secondary school by then and was already taking Latin classes. In my second year, I received the score to Rheinberger’s Mass in F-minor, which we sang in the seminary choir, and in my third year, the piano arrangement of the beautiful composition “Das Lied von der Glocke”, a setting by Andreas Romberg (1767-1821) of Friedrich Schiller’s famous poem.

  When we were younger, my brother, Joseph, usually received stuffed animals, and I got building blocks. So our wishes and talents were different. My brother received a second teddy bear, another time a horse, a duck, and a dog. He was very fond of animals, and therefore our parents always gave him stuffed animals. But once the Christ Child brought him a model train set, too.

  Finally punch was served to us children, which of course was not very strong, and cookies, too. Afterward we had to go to bed rather early. When we were a little older, we woke up then at 11:00 in the evening so that we could attend Midnight Mass in the church. In the morning on the first day of Christmas, there was always a very special, festive breakfast with a Christmas stollen and pure coffee, which our father especially liked and to which he always looked forward. In the afternoon at 2:00, we attended Vespers, also; the church choir sang then, and it was always very solemn.