We girls made our silent way through the dark corridors, though I always managed to jockey for a position beside Therese, and we would offer a squeeze to each other’s hand as greeting. Girt, too, would fall in place, always with her headpiece askew and her soft cheeks still creased from her bedding.
Every three to four hours, around and around the clock, we filed into the sanctuary, soundlessly bearing the sharp pain as knees and shins butted into pews. To move with careful, outstretched precision was too slow, bringing with it the risk of a piling from behind. The only light came from the single candle of Sister Clara, who would choose some days to lead and others to follow, depending on her suspicions and implied instruction from Abbess Margarete.
Here at Marienthrone, there was no clock to chime the hour, but I knew. It was three o’clock. The hour squarely in the middle between a sinner’s sleeping and waking. The hour when, if left untended, a soul could lose itself in sinful dreams, bringing on lustful thoughts or visions of rebellion. And so we were wakened from narrow slumber and brought out to fix our bleary eyes on the pages of dimly lit prayer books and recite words stored just beneath our conscious knowledge.
This was the first truly cold morning, attested by the slick layer of frost on the floor and the shadowy puffs of breath that wrapped around the spoken prayers. The chapel remained icy for this service, as well as the one following breakfast at seven o’clock and the one just before dinner at eleven. There would be no fire until the evening, and perhaps not even then, as it was early in the month and the monks insisted there was no need for such comfort before November.
By silent agreement, Therese, the thinnest and frailest, nestled between Girt and me. As long as there was no watchful eye, we could stand close enough to touch sleeve to sleeve, pressing in to transfer warmth. This we would do at the next service, even with the revelatory risk from the morning light.
“Like a killer’s heart.” Girt slipped in during the recitation, bringing to mind a favorite saying of Sister Gerda.
“Sharp,” I added. “Like his blade.”
“Hush,” Therese chastised. “You’ll get us all in trouble.”
There was no priest to officiate this service, and after a lengthy prayer intoned by the abbess, the congregants were released to go back to our beds. We made the same silent procession down the hall, disappearing into our cells.
Having learned through a series of punishments that there was always an ear at the door, I slipped into bed without exchanging a single noise with the other novices who shared my room. Karla and Liese were dull girls anyway, shuttled here after proving themselves useless to their families. Though they were close to my age, they seemed far younger—silly and inexperienced. Often I wondered if they embraced the hours of silence simply because they had nothing to say. If brought home, they might spend endless silent hours binding wheat or scrubbing pots. Even though they came from different families, they shared common characteristics of narrow-set eyes and sallow skin that shone with fat no matter how dry and crisp the air.
I settled into bed and, following the long-ago advice of the young priest, folded myself as if in prayer, clasping my hands and breathing upon them.
Holy Mother, keep me warm. And give me sleep until breakfast.
The breakfast porridge was warm, and I hurried to my place as quickly as decorum would allow to ensure that it remained so until it settled into my empty stomach. The only sound was that of pewter spoons scraping against wooden bowls, punctuated by the stifled coughs and sniffles that would last throughout the winter. I gave quick, silent thanks for my food and tucked in. Girt and Therese likewise indulged, signing to each other from across the table.
Are you in the bakery today?
No, drying herbs.
For the kitchen?
Infirmary.
I’m helping with deliveries. Again.
This last came from Girt, who delivered the message with her eyes trained up to the ceiling so that neither of us could make contact and entice her to giggles. Though she’d taken her vows and wore the white robes of a nun, she maintained the physique of any healthy farm girl, despite the limited diet of the convent. When local farmers arrived with bushel baskets of vegetables and fruit, or sacks of grain, Girt was called upon to help bring them down from the wagon and carry them within the gates.
And Hans? I made the sign—two fingers posed like legs, thumb and pinky stretched out like long, strong arms.
Girt turned her eyes heavenward again and quickly touched her fingertips in prayer. I hope so.
Abbess Margarete cleared her throat, and we concentrated on our porridge.
It was a sin, of course, to encourage such flirtation between Girt and Hans, and Therese made her displeasure known with the flaring of her nostrils and the thinning of her pretty lips. She, too, had taken her vows only a few weeks before and had changed before our very eyes. Her silence was peaceful, her obedience complete.
After breakfast and the service that followed, I returned to the kitchen, where a square wooden tray waited. It held a small loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, three baked apples cut into slices, a pewter pitcher of milk, and a pot of tea hot enough to still be steaming.
I stood in front of it, questioning the red-faced sister—May I take it?—and was given a wave of permission in response.
Though I’d run all the way from the sanctuary for the privilege, I carefully lifted the tray and walked with measured steps out of the kitchen, across the frost-covered yard, and into the nuns’ quarters. Only this act of service permitted me to be in the corridor of those who had already taken their vows, and I allowed myself the most surreptitious of glances into the empty cells, knowing they were occupied by both of my dearest friends and other women whom I barely knew. Soon I would be there too. After the New Year, after my sixteenth birthday, when I would take the vows that would grant me entrance. I knew Girt and Therese did not share a room, which gave me some hope that I might be paired with one of them, but was torn as to which I would prefer. Girt, unchanged since the day I opened my eyes in Brehna, would be an entertaining respite from the silent restrictions of the convent—enough to garner punishment from the abbess, but worth the sacrifice of smaller freedoms.
But Therese—I couldn’t deny the fascination I had with my friend’s illumination. She glowed the moment she stood newly clothed in the robes of the order, a seamless whiteness that made her luminous blue eyes and faintly pink lips the only touch of color on her being. Perhaps, I thought, if I could be given back to this friend, made equal with her, I could capture some of that righteous inner peace. It might flow from Therese’s pillow to mine in the few precious hours of sleep, and seep in.
With my own ceremony still months away, I felt nothing but restlessness. Not fear, not doubt, but a skittish spirit—something I couldn’t share with another soul at Marienthrone. Girt would dismiss; Therese would chastise; the abbess would send me to my knees on the stony-cold chapel floor to repent in prayer. And while his office might grant a priest access to my sin, I had no intentions of sharing my deepest thoughts to a faceless man on the other side of a screen.
The corridor became darker as I passed the final open cell, and more narrow as the walls loomed thicker, closing in for a bit before widening again. Wide enough, at least, to allow the view inside a single small room, closed off by a door made of solid wood, save for a square opening right in its center composed of an ornate lattice. Hidden within the design were two hinges and a latch. Beyond it, a room not much wider than the door itself, lit only by a narrow strip of window stretched from one corner to the next.
I had never stepped foot inside the door and had only peeked in once, years ago, when childish curiosity overcame decorum. Now, I balanced the tray on one hand, reached for the strip of leather attached to a small bell hanging above, and gave it one decisive tug, resulting in a faint ring!
I saw the form behind the lattice and moved closer to get a better view.
“I’ve brought you break
fast.”
There was a soft click of the latch, and the window opened. Small and square, it would barely allow enough space to pass the tray, but it was enough to provide a clear view of the woman inside.
“Good morning, Sister Gerda.”
A slight, toothless smile came at the sound of my voice. I knew I wasn’t supposed to speak at all—none of the other sisters did when they completed this errand. Only Girt, Therese, and I carried the history of having known Sister Gerda before she took on this mantle of solitude.
It had seemed almost cruel at first, taking this small, blind, homely old woman and locking her away in something that seemed like a prison. All darkness and isolation while the rest of us busied about, for there was no idle time at Marienthrone. Gardening, washing, cooking, spinning—always something to fill our hours and occupy our hands when we weren’t in a time of prayer or attending Mass. But it was Gerda herself who—not wishing to make the journey back to Brehna alone—had thrown herself on Abbess Margarete’s mercy, petitioning to be given the gift of solitude, a hermit within our walls. The abbess agreed, with the understanding that Gerda would be exempt from all work, but also excluded from all fellowship. Only to live out her days with the barest of comfort: a bed, a fire, and food. Her meals were to be delivered each morning and evening. The only words exchanged would be those of the psalmists on the rare occasion she made known a request to have Scripture read through the door.
Sly old fox, we’d thought when first we came to know of the plan, and it seemed to me she’d been gloating ever since.
“The tea is still hot,” I said, passing the tray through the window. “So drink it quick.”
Carefully, tilting her head to take advantage of what little vision remained, Sister Gerda took the tray and set it on the small table beside the narrow cot. A pewter cup hung from a hook, and she took it down, filled it with the steaming tea, and made shuffling steps to bring it back to me.
“No,” I protested. “It’s for you.”
She held it out again, insisting, and I realized she had no other recourse for hospitality. I took one bracing sip before handing the cup back.
“There. The rest is for you.”
Sister Gerda made the sign of the cross and offered up a silent blessing, something I hadn’t thought to do, but I knew she did so without pretense. Whatever her motivation had been all those years ago when she first took residence here, her solitude had changed her. Humbled her, even. She took the cup back and drank deeply. As long as I’d known her, she’d had an aversion to the cold.
“There’s a frost outside,” I said, ignoring—as usual—the imposed silence of Sister Gerda’s status. “First of the winter. I should have fetched you a shawl or a second blanket. Are you warm enough? I don’t know when I’ll be able to come again, but if it’s not me, I can ask . . . whoever . . . to make sure you have—”
Sister Gerda held up a quieting hand, and I stopped short before whispering, “If I could—if we could, just for a few minutes?”
The old woman took another sip of tea, then set the cup on the tray. Once returned, she slid the wooden latch, and I stepped back, allowing the door to swing open wide into the hallway. I placed my foot on the threshold, the toe of my soft leather shoe just an inch inside the solitary cell. It was the closest I would have to an invitation.
A small shelf jutted out from the narrow space beside the door, and on it an hourglass, though from legend, I knew it contained far less than an hour’s time. Mere minutes, actually, during which Sister Gerda could suspend her silence.
“Wait,” I said, catching her gnarled hand before she could tip the glass. “I don’t want to waste any time on me. I can talk all I want.”
Sister Gerda twisted her face into its familiar scowl, the same I remembered from my days as a very little girl, terrified by the mass of boils.
“What if . . . ?” And there was nothing left. In truth, I didn’t see Sister Gerda as a confidante. I doubted she had wisdom to offer or would listen with any ear of compassion. But I had no one else to talk to. No one I could trust with the doubts that drifted like clouds within my spirit.
Sister Gerda shuffled back to the table, picked up her cup, and held it in both hands, just under her nose, looking for all the world as if she didn’t care whether I spoke another word or not.
I began again.
“I don’t know where to start, or what to say, or who to say it to. I’m so full of questions, and I’ve prayed—you have to believe me, Sister. I close my eyes and I ask God to show me what he wants, what life he intends for me to follow, but of course when I open my eyes, all I see is . . . this. I know I’m not worthy of a vision, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful for all he’s given to me all my life, how he’s provided, but I—”
Sister Gerda picked up a slice of baked apple and gummed it with exaggerated, slurping relish.
I took a deep breath. “I just want to be sure. Even though I might not have a choice, I want to know I’m doing the right thing, not just the only thing.” And then I fell silent.
Sister Gerda wiped her hand on her robe—black, as she’d been permitted to wear—and trailed her fingers along the wall, making her way back to the door. Her bent body stretched as she picked up the glass and held it to me, giving me responsibility for measuring the passing time. I counted a hundred grains before she spoke.
“Do you look very much like your cousin?”
The question was so disconnected to my thoughts, I could hardly process the meaning. I wouldn’t waste her time with an answer.
“Everybody says you do. But I don’t see it. Of course, I don’t see much.”
Her words came with a harmless shot of humor, and I offered no comment.
“What say you? Are you a pretty girl, Katharina?”
“I-I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “You haven’t thought about it because you don’t have to. Do you think I’ve lived a single minute with the same luxury?”
My heart clenched, and I longed for the sand to pour.
“I know your story. A noble family, grown poor over generations. Your father done nothing to improve your prospects.” Sister Gerda’s words came just short of mocking, as if offering some soft-syllabled punishment. Her lips too loose to smirk. “He married your mother because he loved her, didn’t he? Some grand romance despite her family’s protest. The abbess spoke of it, to make clear how she was able to live as God’s servant, being spared such ruination.”
My face burned, shamed at our legacy and angry at Margarete’s betrayal.
“And his second wife, your stepmother, has proven to be another financial disappointment, hasn’t she?”
Among other things.
“Outside of these walls, your story would be no different. A poor boy might love you and mire you in poverty. A noble man might love you but choose to share his life—and his fortune—with a more equal match. Only here, within this house of God, can your value be measured by infinite worth.”
I wondered what worth had ever been spoken to a young Gerda. When had her body first begun to twist upon itself? What did her face look like before the first bit of flesh formed into a molten glob? My silence must have been taken for some sort of pity, for she smacked her lips dismissively and waved my unspoken platitudes away.
“I am at peace with my lot. Who’s to say I wouldn’t be here even if I’d been given a life of some great beauty? There are those, you know. Our little Therese, for one.”
“I know.” And then frustration took hold. We were wasting time. Any second the sand would run out. Or worse, one of the other nuns would hear our voices and report our conversation. Not the details of it, maybe, but the sin of disobedience. “I don’t care about any of that, truly. About myself or my life, or what can or cannot be.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
Her question carried hurt, and rightfully so. Nobody, as far as I knew, ever asked Sister Gerda for anyth
ing. Even I offered only a pretense of seeking guidance, when all I really wanted was a human wall to hear my voice.
“I want you to listen. Because nobody else can. Not even God, because I cannot voice this, even in prayer.”
She smiled wide, like a crescent moon. “You think he will not hear you in this place?”
“I know he can. But he won’t give me an answer.”
“To what, child? Speak it plain.”
I could not, yet. “How old were you, Sister Gerda, when you took the veil?”
“Younger than you. I might have been twelve years old, but there’s no record of my birth. No mother, and I was so small.”
“And if you had a choice. Is this what you would have wanted?”
“Oh, child. Life is meaningless enough. Imagine how much more it would be if we were given only what we want. I’d have a straight back and a smooth face. And likely nothing else in the world. Think to this time yesterday. What did you want?”
I answered without hesitation, remembering clearly. “A piece of ham.”
My answer surprised her, and she laughed with true appreciation. “And this time last week?”
“Probably the same thing.” I was always hungry.
“And it might have given you a little comfort at the time, but would it have changed you? Brought you closer to God? Or given strength to your faith?” Her clouded eyes grew wider, and it seemed she was envisioning something far beyond this dark room. “We must take care not to think we have any command of our own fate. Providence rests in the hands of God.”
“But my father got to make a choice, didn’t he? Sending me here?”
“Human decisions are too often born of weakness. I have always been weak, without a life other than God’s provision. Think what I would have been, tossed out into the world. Never would I have lived long enough to know Christ. Here, I will never be hungry. Never without shelter. Never at the mercy of those who would do harm.”
Loving Luther Page 7