Loving Luther

by Allison Pittman

  “What must we do to save our souls?”

  I took a deep breath. “We must worship God in faith, hope, and charity.”

  “And what does that mean?” Sister Elisabeth prompted.

  “It means to save my soul, I must hope in him. Believe in him. And love him with all of my heart.”

  I waited for what should surely be the next question, in which Sister Elisabeth would lean forward, stretching her beautiful face beyond the confines of the wimple, and ask, Do you, Katharina? Do you love God with all of your heart? But she didn’t ask. She never had, perhaps sparing both of us. Yes, I believed in God, if for no other reason than out of the fear of not believing, but the thought of loving him brought with it another kind of fear. I loved my own father with all of my heart, and he’d said often enough that, without my love, he’d never live another day. I supposed that all of the people with truly saved souls—the priests, the sisters, the saints—simply had no one else to love. But I did. I loved my father, I hoped in my father, but even so, after so many nights of witnessing his soiled clothing and endless weeping, I knew better than to ever believe in him.

  Sister Elisabeth interrupted my thoughts. “How shall we know what things to believe?”

  I stared down at my hands, picturing the faded bruise beneath the sleeve. “God speaks to us through the teachings of the Church, giving us all things we are to believe.”

  “And where can the truths of the Church be found?” Sister Elisabeth’s voice lilted with excitement.

  “In the Apostles’ Creed.”

  “Yes!” She clasped her hands to her chin. “Now. Can you recite it?”

  I stood up, as such an occasion called for, and swept the crumbs and wrinkles from my dress. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.”

  I continued what was, in my mind, a perfect recitation, picturing Christ’s descent into hell and ascension into heaven. I imagined him at that moment, sitting at the right hand of God, on a throne in a place that rivaled the beauty of the greatest cathedral. Not that I’d ever seen a great cathedral. The chapel here at Brehna was drab and worn, no place for Christ to sit. No place for him to judge the living and the dead, but oh, wouldn’t I love to see the judgment of Father Johann? Wouldn’t I love to see Jesus lick his fingers with fire and strike them down on the priest’s deserving flesh?

  “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

  I stopped, realizing I’d risen to my toes within my wooden shoes. Sister Elisabeth said nothing, only looked on, eyes brimming with pride and a hint of expectation.

  “Amen.”

  “Perfect!” Sister Elisabeth pulled me in for a quick kiss to my cheek. “You may have another bite of cake while we begin the next lesson.”

  For the balance of the hour Sister Elisabeth offered instruction on the sacraments of baptism, confirmation, and confession, and I listened, consumed and fascinated by the complexities of faith. I couldn’t remember my own baptism, of course, but I had witnessed many others, breathless at the moment the tiny soul was sealed to heaven. And I’d even practiced confession, once, with my father. He stood behind the drapery while I confessed that I sometimes hated my brothers. Papa had said, My child, if you harbor hatred in your heart, you leave no room for love. For penance, I was told to speak only sweetly to my brothers for the next three days, and to pray for them every evening for the next seven. I followed through, completely, and felt the darkness lift until the day Hans pelted me mercilessly with walnuts as I tried to cross the yard.

  When the bell chimed three, Sister Elisabeth wrapped the remainder of the cake in its linen cloth and told me she would save it until our next lesson, two days hence.

  “Thank you, Sister Elisabeth,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “And remember, my girl, during our study here, you are free to ask me questions, as many questions as I ask you.” Sister Elisabeth took a pinch of cake. “Don’t think I don’t notice how far your mind flies when we are studying. Your knowledge is not limited by my knowledge. You have the mind of Christ, endless in what it can pursue.”

  “But I don’t know what I don’t know.”

  Sister Elisabeth laughed—a beautiful sound that reminded me of a dove’s call in the morning. “Then we shall continue to discover God’s teachings together.”

  CHAPTER 5

  1509

  I stepped into the confessional, closed the door, and breathed in the darkness before the tiny window slid open, revealing the priest’s profile on the other side of the thin, intricately carved barrier. Although I knew it was forbidden, I hazarded a look. Since Father Johann’s untimely death nearly a year earlier, the confessional and pulpit had been filled by all manner of itinerant priests, those either ascending in rank or nearing their time of pasture. One had to be repeatedly poked by a resident deacon when loud snores were reported by the penitents. This one was young. Smooth skin, round face, and the good manners not to be staring right at me through the lattice.

  “Bless me, Father,” I said with rote obedience, “for I have sinned. It is one week since my last confession.”

  “In what way have you sinned, my child?” His voice was tinged with humor, as if knowing the confession of a ten-year-old girl could be harmless at best.

  “I harbored evil thoughts about my stepmother.”

  “What kind of evil thoughts?”

  My mind filled with a litany of complaints. For all the time I’d been at Brehna, I hadn’t been invited home for the Christmas holidays, and four birthdays had passed without even a letter of recognition or praise. All of this I attributed to Retta, as the two letters I had received from Papa were filled with his own rantings against her overbearing nature, saying that if he were a stronger man, he would bring me back home. But he bowed to her wisdom, as she was a woman and thus must know what would be best for a young girl. None of this, however, excused the darkness of my heart.

  “I hate her.”

  “Scriptures tell us that anyone who hates another human being has committed murder in his—or her—heart.”

  “I know.” My hands reached for the necklace hidden in its secret pocket. This was my fourth dress since arriving at this place and had been torn during a rousing game of tag in the courtyard. “She’s never come even once to visit me.”

  “If you hate her, why would you want her to come visit?”

  I shrugged, as if the priest could see. “I don’t, really. But that means Papa hasn’t come either. Because he bows to her. Why should I bother even having a stepmother if I’m never going to see her? I wish she’d died instead of my mother, but then she wouldn’t be my stepmother, and I’d never know enough to hate her.”

  When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “After confession, and three times every day until your next confession, you are to ask the Blessed Mother to protect your stepmother. And as you pray, you must promise the Father that you will try very hard to love her. We cannot pray falsehoods to God, and in time, you will love her.”

  Never. But I said only, “Yes, Father.”

  “And have you any other sins to confess?”

  “Three nights this week I took my supper biscuit out of the dining hall and ate it in my bed.”

  I thought I heard an exhalation that sounded a bit like laughter. “And this is a sin?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “And why do you break such a rule so willingly?”

  “Because I am hungry, sometimes, late at night, and it’s hard to sleep when you’re both hungry and cold. But if I lay on top of the biscuit for a few minutes, it gets warm, and then it warms my insides, too.”

  “But doesn’t it make you thirsty?” With that question, the priest became a partner in c
onversation rather than an appointed absolver of my sin.

  “A little, but I don’t notice much until the morning.”

  “You know, young lady, they have these rules for a reason. Can you guess the reason?”

  There was no hint of condescension in his voice; only an opportunity for me to supply the answer we both knew to be correct. “Because of the rats.”

  “That’s right. Rats. And you wouldn’t want to wake up some morning to find a rat nibbling through your blankets in search of the last few crumbs of a forgotten biscuit, would you?”

  “No,” I said truthfully after weighing the probability.

  “Even worse, the rat might give up a quest for crumbs and come nibbling directly at your nose.”

  Here I giggled, as I was clearly meant to do.

  “Child,” he said, returning to a tone of kind, spiritual authority, “if you are hungry at night, recall this Scripture: The bread of God is he which cometh down from heaven, and giveth life unto the world. And when the followers of Christ asked him to give them this bread so that they could eat it and be full, do you remember what our Savior told them?”

  “That he was the bread of life.”

  “Exactly. Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. You believe in Jesus Christ, do you not?”

  “I do.” In that moment, I believed a little more.

  “Then feast upon him. In those quiet moments, before sleep, when your stomach might be empty, fill your thoughts with the hope of Christ. Think on his goodness and his mercy. Thank him for the fact that, even though you might be hungry in the moment, you know dawn is coming with the promise of porridge.”

  I giggled again, softer this time, not knowing if I was supposed to. How on earth did he know we had porridge for breakfast every morning?

  “And if you are cold,” he continued, “fold your body as if kneeling in prayer. Clasp your hands together, and breathe upon them. The Holy Ghost lives within you. Imagine his fire, warming your body through your blood. He may not give you a second blanket, but his strength can double the weight of the one you lie under. Only ask it, and it will be given.”

  “I will, Father,” I said, wishing I could go this very minute to my narrow cot, third from the washstand at the far end of the room.

  “Now—” I could see the faint image of his hand moving to make the sign of the cross—“in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Depart in peace and be warmed and filled.”

  I crossed myself. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen, and thank you, Father.”

  I exited the confessional, wishing very much I could linger to see the man behind the voice. But his instructions to pray for my stepmother took me straight to the altar, where I genuflected, saying, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” and then knelt, feeling the comforting edge of the locket in the hidden pocket beneath my knee.

  “Blessed Mother,” I prayed, and then could go no further. The priest had instructed me to ask Holy Mary to protect my stepmother and to promise God the Father that I would love her. In that moment, the entire prayer got tangled up in my head. Which was more important? Which more powerful, less painful? My selfishness couldn’t, in all honesty, bring forth a genuine prayer for protection. For all I cared, Retta could fall down a well, or get kicked in the behind by the family’s cantankerous mule, or catch her eyebrows on fire bringing burning bread out of the oven. What need did my family have of the woman? For all I knew, my brothers were grown and gone, and I hardly felt in need of anyone’s care. The locket was now boring into my knee, but I did not shift my weight.

  I should love her.

  The priest had told me only to try. To try very hard.

  I crossed myself—“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti”—and tried again. “Heavenly Father, God, I ask you and our Blessed Mother, who watches over us in heaven, to watch over Mama Retta at home. I ask that she be well and happy, and for that happiness to make her kind and loving. And I shall try to love her in my head, even if I cannot love her in my heart.”

  I spoke the prayer loud enough for the priest to hear, had he been so inclined, and remained at the altar with an unreasonable hope that he might reveal himself in approval of my obedience. When he didn’t, I stood, knowing the locket had left a dimple in the skin of my knee. Since I was older now, I no longer had to wear wooden shoes, so my steps were nearly silent as I exited the chapel. Nagging curiosity tempted me to remain, silent and still at the door, until he—thinking the room to be empty—might emerge for his own prayer.

  Instead, I heard my name. Softly at first, but then again, louder, coming from the back of the sanctuary.

  “Kat!”

  Therese, of course. Only she called me by that name. I hurried down the aisle and found my friend standing in the shadows, her white skin luminous in the dim light.

  “There’s a letter for you,” she whispered. “Well, not so much for you, but about you. From the abbess at Marienthrone.”

  “My mother’s cousin. Margarete.”

  Therese waved the detail away. “Sister Odile was sending Sister Gerda to fetch you, but I’m faster. I wanted to tell you first.”

  I reached to my friend for strength as my stomach dropped in anticipation of the missive’s news. “Do you think they’re sending for me, then?”

  “What else could it be? I couldn’t hear everything, but Sister Odile said something about ‘the time has come,’ and she told Sister Gerda to say nothing. Only to fetch you to the sisters’ common room right away.”

  As if confirming, the shuffling step of Sister Gerda echoed in the vestibule of the sanctuary, and we dropped our voices to something close to silence.

  “Don’t let on that you know.”

  “I won’t. But you should go, or Sister Gerda will know for sure you told me.”

  “Watch; I’ll move right past her.”

  The old nun’s small, bent form came into view, her steps guided by the fingertips of the gnarled hand grazing the wall. As promised, Therese moved with swift, noiseless steps against the opposite wall, garnering little more than a sniff of attention.

  “Katharina von Bora?” Sister Gerda spoke to the air, repeating the name twice more in different directions before the object of her search responded.

  “I’m here, Sister Gerda.”

  “Sister Odile said you would be in confession.”

  “I have confessed already, Sister Gerda. And said my prayers.”

  “Then come with me.” She extended an elbow, clearly intended for me to take. “We’ll walk together, and you can tell me all about the day.”

  In the years since I first arrived, I had grown to be a head taller than Sister Gerda, and the fear she once inspired had tempered into a true, reverent affection. I stooped a bit to take the woman’s arm and bore the extra weight as I turned us in the opposite direction.

  “What would you like me to tell you?”

  “I feel the warmth of the afternoon,” Sister Gerda said, her words swished with toothlessness, “but shouldn’t the sun shine more brightly?”

  “We’re in the shade now, under that covered walkway.”

  “I know where we are, girl. I’ve walked these grounds for more than twice your lifetime.”

  “Forgive me, Sister. I meant no disrespect.”

  “It is a gift from our Father, to be so familiar with the sights that have fallen away. I see these walls as clearly as I touch them, and I can count the steps in prayer from one room to the next. I meant only that the light seems dim for the hour.”

  I studied the courtyard. “I believe you’re right, Sister. The sky’s not so much cloudy, but dim. More like autumn than summer.”

  “As I thought.”

  I waited for further instruction in conversation but then noticed the old woman’s lips moving silently. I kept my own shut tight until we came to the antechamber of the common room.
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  “Come then,” Sister Gerda said. “Open the door, child. All is well.”

  I did as she bid, then stepped back to allow her to enter first before following.

  As much as we girls relished our Sunday afternoons in the common room, it was also a place fraught with legend and dread, for behind its doors, girls received punishments for infractions that occurred after school hours. Once, Therese called it the Chamber of Sadness because girls who were summoned here often came out crying with news from home. A dead parent, a summoning home, a fire that burned house and barn and livestock—all bad news delivered within hours after a whispered invitation to this place. So despite Sister Gerda’s assurance that all was well and Therese’s news about the letter from Marienthrone, I brought my own misgivings with me over the threshold.

  “Katharina von Bora,” Sister Odile said, greeting me the way she had on every occasion since my arrival. She stood in the center of the room, despite the abundance of furniture on which to sit.

  “Good afternoon, Sister Odile.” I offered a curtsy and bowed head as I’d been taught.

  “I suppose you know already that I have received word from Marienthrone.” She cocked an eyebrow, communicating that it would be both useless and unnecessary to lie.

  “I don’t know the nature of the word, Sister Odile. Is there news from Girt?”

  Girt’s family, upon receiving word that their daughter would, indeed, take her vows to become a nun, had arranged for her to go to Marienthrone—a more prestigious institution than Brehna, and thus an augmentation to her family’s name.

  “This letter is from the abbess herself, and it concerns you alone. Shall I read it to you?”

  “I can read it for myself, if you’d prefer.”