“But that’s just it.” I focused my words on Therese. “It doesn’t seem like everything we do comes from the Holy Scriptures. And how would we know, if we cannot read them for ourselves? If all we can do is what we’re told? And why does the Church have the power to tell us, anyway?”
“Blasphemer,” Therese said, recoiling.
“No,” I insisted. “It would be blasphemous if I spoke against God, but the Church is not God. I want to obey God, but I want to do so freely. Subject to no one.”
There. I’d given voice to the nameless, wordless spirit that had been haunting me from the moment I first read the words—longer, to be truthful. And my friends comforted me with a cushion of silence in their wake. Girt’s lips brushed my cheek, but Therese made no such gesture as the two of them rose from their places and returned to their own beds. In their vacancy, I crawled out and went to my knees, the floor punishingly hard beneath them.
Forgive me, Father, for any doubt of your sovereignty and protection. Grant me wisdom to discern your voice from the voices of all others.
I dared not even pray the question that settled like lingering leaves of tea at the bottom of my heart. Could I leave? Could I pursue worship more freely in the world outside these convent walls? Whom would I ask? What would I say? Leaving the convent was not unheard of. I knew of women who returned to their villages to live out their days among family, keeping to their vows of chastity and service until the end of their lives. Some, I knew, left in pursuit of total isolation, offering themselves as living sacrifices, with only God himself for both society and sustenance. And of course, Girt’s predicament was nothing new. Indeed, it was why the convents insisted always on such extreme precautions to keep the sisters isolated from the roving world outside. Men were known to be heedless of the sanctity of a nun’s virginity—beyond that of any other woman. I’d been warned from an early age about the danger of men’s pride, their desire to conquer and take not only what wasn’t theirs but what clearly belonged to someone else—even if that someone else was God. For all I knew, Hans’s years-long pursuit of Girt was nothing more than a quest of his own pride. My friend, a prize.
As the bone-piercing chill of the floor seeped in, my thoughts grew cold. Had she been, all this time, nothing more than a victim of a young man’s seduction? Perhaps if Girt were more literate, I wouldn’t be grappling with these questions at all. I’d be aligned with Therese, watching with faint disapproval as my friend made a romantic fool of herself, blushing within her wimple at the attentions of a handsome farm boy.
I concentrated on the pain, accepting it as punishment for the recklessness of thought. My mattress, though thin, offered comfort. My blanket, warmth. My pillow, undeserved luxury.
But I will accept your rod of discipline. Your staff of correction, O Lord.
As should Girt.
With all sensation absent from my feet, I turned and crawled the short expanse to Girt’s bed, where my friend’s shallow snores belied any troubled thoughts.
“Girt,” I whispered, lips close enough to brush her ear.
“Hmmph?” More sleep than sound.
“You need to tell Hans not to bring any more writings from Luther. Do you understand?”
Girt mumbled another syllable.
“I mean it. Tell him, no more. Not another word unless it’s Scripture. Are we clear?”
“Leave her alone.” Therese’s bold whisper held no remnant of sleep. “If you don’t have to feel subject to the Church, why should she be subject to you?”
“It’s all right,” Girt said, clearly awake now. “If you don’t want to read my messages, I’ll find someone else who will.”
If there were any messages at all in the weeks following, I had no knowledge. Girt’s affection toward me cooled considerably as she aligned with other sisters, sitting with them at mealtimes, walking with them to and from services. Only during those short hours of darkness, within the confines of our room, did I have unfettered access, and more often than not was treated with bare civility.
“I saw you near the gate today,” I said on one occasion. Girt had been standing at the fence when no matter of convent business would have brought her there.
“Did you?” Girt replied. Not coy, as in times past, but dismissive.
“Everyone did.” This from Therese, with unmistakable warning. “You’re in danger of committing mortal sin. And you’ll have to confess it.”
“If I do, it won’t be to you,” Girt hissed. “Either of you.”
The next day at breakfast, I gave an extra prayer of thanks for the fresh berries to stir into my porridge, and when I opened my eyes, I noticed a curl of paper rolled up against my bowl. With practiced stealth, I tucked it into my palm and into the hem of my sleeve, specially tailored for such a purpose. My eyes searched the refectory, but Girt was sitting too far down the table from me. To her left sat Sister Gwenneth, to her right, Sister Ave, neither of whom gave any indication of being an accomplice to the act. But who? Had it been delivered during my short time of prayer? Or had I unknowingly set my bowl next to a message intended for someone else?
The berries lost some of their sweetness, and the porridge became sticky in my mouth. Still, I ate, as it would arouse suspicion were I not to, let alone the accusation of ingratitude for the Lord’s bounty. Five bites, six, then two more.
I should wait. Excuse myself to go the chapel early to pray and read it in the solitude of an empty pew. Or sneak back to my cell and read it within the coolness of the four dark walls. My stomach churned, now with excitement more than fear, and I realized how much I missed being party to this risk. How my mind had been aching for something—anything new to decipher and ponder.
Almost without realizing intent, my finger worried the hem of my sleeve, extracting the miniature scroll. Keeping my hands hidden below the table, I bowed my head again and closed my eyes—at least halfway, leaving a narrow slit of sight. Then, making no perceptible movement above my wrists, I unrolled the paper.
Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage. Galatians v. 1.
I covered the words with my palm and saw them instead in my mind.
I wanted to stand, but could not, as the meal had not yet ended.
I wanted to ask who had given this verse, but could not, as the message within it would be construed as rebellious.
I wanted to read the verse that would follow, as the passage was unfamiliar, but could not, as I had no Bible of my own, and no assurance that my study would make the language understandable.
Instinctively I knew the bondage from which I had been freed was the bondage of sin, and that with every confession, every act of contrition, I remained free from that bondage. But once free, did any slave ever return—over and over—to his chains? Wasn’t freedom conferred once and for all time? And if my soul was truly free, why then subject my body to such punishing confinement?
I felt a burning. Ears first. Then cheeks, my entire face enflamed. My hand clenched into a fist, mangling the Scripture beneath it. Gwenneth’s hand came into my field of vision, palm up, beckoning attention.
Are you all right?
Yes.
Gwenneth lowered her hand below the table, tracking it with her eyes, prompting me to do the same. There, the nun splayed her fingers out, then slowly—deliberately—folded all but the first, then closed her hand and took it away. She returned to her porridge, eating as if nothing at all had transpired. Knowing some communication had taken place, even if I didn’t fully understand, I folded the slip of paper into a tiny, tight wad. With as surreptitious a movement as I could muster, I slipped the verse into my mouth, feeling the parchment begin to soften immediately. The ink was bitter, but I imagined it dispersing across my tongue, coating it with its message.
Be not entangled again.
Galatians v. 1.
Five. One.
I closed my eyes and revisited the image of Gwenneth’s hand
under the table. Five, one.
Gwenneth had given me the paper. Gwenneth knew its message and was kindred in my thoughts, despite her present feigned disinterest.
When the bell rang to dismiss, I gathered my bowl and my cup, dropped each in the bucket near the door, and proceeded into the hallway toward the chapel. Girt sidled up beside me. I felt the slightest tug on my sleeve and looked down to see Girt’s hand splayed. Five. And then a single finger. One.
Without hesitation, I repeated the gesture before we joined hands and walked together.
CHAPTER 12
THE WORDS—leave, escape, freedom—remained little more than silent thought well into the summer. Girt, Gwenneth, I, and a growing host of other sisters made painstakingly new acquaintance of each other, maneuvering the length of the refectory tables, making tentative signs.
Have you any news from outside?
Would you like to work beside me in the garden?
We could have no obvious gathering together, but a membership was soon enough established, with Girt and I acknowledged as its head. Girt because messages continued to be slipped in by the ever-increasingly amorous Hans, while I resumed my role as primary reader and interpreter of meaning. Then whispers, signs. Scraps of paper slipped into sleeves, smuggled in prayer books. Eventually destroyed.
One morning in the final week of June, I was met in the hallway outside the chapel after morning services by Sister Anne, who held a tray with a small loaf of dark bread, a pitcher of water, and two pears. Without any exchange of words, I knew this was intended for Sister Gerda, and I’d been charged with its delivery. I hadn’t seen her since that afternoon when I shared Luther’s passage. On the occasions I asked to deliver Sister Gerda’s tray, I’d been resolutely refused permission. Twice I’d sat on the ground outside her door, my presence begging an audience, only to leave—ignored.
Now, this.
I took the tray with a brief nod and wound my way through the dormitory to the dark hallway. It was cooler here than anyplace else within the convent walls. Almost pleasantly so, though the damp prevailed. As on previous occasions, I balanced the tray on my hip as I rapped on the door, speaking out, “Good morning, Sister Gerda.”
The door opened, and she emerged from the shadows, taking the tray and depositing it on the rough-hewn table beneath the scrap of window. She came back, holding the two pears, offering one up to me.
“I couldn’t.” Knowing how little the woman ate. But she insisted, going so far as to take my hand and press the fruit into my palm.
What I wanted more than anything was to be invited over the threshold. To sit on the floor or share the narrow cot and take in the wisdom of this sister who devoted so much of her time to prayer and meditation. Still, I should not reject her offer of hospitality, and once my fingers closed around it, I said, “Thank you” before sinking my teeth in for a juice-filled bite, thankful to know it was soft enough for Sister Gerda to enjoy.
For minutes, neither of us spoke. We simply ate together, smiling as we wiped errant juice from our chins. When the fruit was gone, eaten down to a dotting of seeds on our palms, Sister Gerda took the timer from its shelf and turned it to begin the flow of sand.
“I have been praying over the words you left to me.”
“Thank you,” I said again, wanting to tell the woman what an honor it seemed to be so gravely considered, but not willing to waste a single precious second on my own words.
“You asked me what it means, this idea of being both a subject and free. But I suspect, in the days that have passed, you have come to your own conclusions.”
“Yes.” Again, no need to speak what was clearly understood.
“And I suspect now, in all your attempts to speak to me, and to have me speak to you, that you are seeking some kind of blessing.”
“Truthfully, Sister, I don’t know what I want.”
“But you’re beginning to suspect?”
The boldness of Sister Gerda’s words did nothing to bolster my strength, and I looked quickly up and down the dark hallway to see that no one else listened. “I–I haven’t—”
“Don’t try to convince me that it hasn’t crossed your mind. Leaving. Don’t think you’d be the first woman to take her veil back out into the world. It happens. But there is a difference between leaving a convent and abandoning your vows.”
“I made my vows to the Church.”
“Not to God?” Her good eye twinkled behind its cloud.
“He wants nothing but my devotion, and I could be just as devoted to him living the life that other good Christian women live.”
“Why, then, do you seek me out?”
“Because I need someone to tell me what to do.”
“Someone did tell you what to do. Many years ago. All your life, isn’t that so? Be truthful to yourself, my Katharina. What you want is for someone to grant you permission to do what is impermissible. You want someone to transcend God’s authority over your life.”
“I don’t—”
Sister Gerda held up her hand. “I have made my choices, even within the narrow confines of this life. No one sentenced me to this cell. No one insisted I take on the severity of my vows. Some—our abbess, for one—consider me locked away, and thankfully so. But others, daily—and you above all know this—beg me to speak. They think that just because I spend so much time with my lips closed, I must be gathering wisdom for those moments when I open them. They see my life as a miracle because I wasn’t left to die at birth. Or because I live on, without my sight. Without my face. And because I have so little time—” she glanced at the rapidly emptying glass—“I won’t bother with a lie. I have no greater insight to the Father than do you. Or anyone else who seeks him.”
She crossed to her table and came back with Luther’s words.
“I heard; I understood and remember. Every word.” By her tone I knew she’d been wrestling with the concept of freedom every bit as much as I had all this time. “Do not assume I am a prisoner here. I am subject to no man. I decide if, and when, and to whom I will speak. But I am subject to every man—or to every woman here, bound to live according to the expectation of holiness that you set upon me.”
“I could never be what you are.”
Sister Gerda laughed. Softly, with most of its impact hidden behind her hand. “Nor should you ever want to. Nor could I have the courage to embark on the adventure that awaits you.”
The remaining grains of time numbered in the mere hundreds. “There’s no adventure.”
“You are subject to God, first and foremost, and to the Church as his embodiment. What a narrow trestle to walk upon. See that you do not stumble, as you are now subject to all who watch, and look to you.”
“But I—”
“We’ll not speak again, not until it will be time to truly give you the blessing you seek.”
Time emptied itself, revealing nothing but the solid planks of the door as it eased shut.
We whispered plans. Veils intertwined, shielding lips and holding words close. Some, bold, stating we must lock arms and stride straight out the front gate, out to the mysterious, waiting world. Others demanded rescue. Gallant men like the knights of legend, each riding in on a swift white horse and tearing out with a virgin clasped to his chest.
“Keep your wits about you,” I would hiss, my eyes trained on whatever task gave us an excuse to gather. “Think to yourselves—why have you come here? And now, why must you leave? This isn’t a matter of an escapade. It’s an escape, and the only safe way to escape from a place is to know that you have somewhere to escape to.”
“What you need are husbands,” Girt said one afternoon in late October. A small gathering of our committed sisters were in the otherwise empty refectory, slathering the tables with oil, meticulously wiping it into the minuscule cracks in the wood. Each moved a square of cloth in ever-widening circles, knowing we had the luxury of two hours to work and whisper until dinner at noon.
“Easy for you to say.” Gwenneth
rested her pouting face on one hand while the other performed its chore, listlessly. “We don’t all have a suitor at the gate.”
Girt leaned forward, drawing us in. “I’m not the one who’s saying it.”
I didn’t trust Girt’s knowing smirk. “Who is, exactly?”
“Luther.” Her gaze circled the table, obviously hoping for a bigger reaction, but most gave little more than a shrug of recognition.
I held myself still. “What part does he have in it?”
“Hans says he’s—what’s the word? Sympathetic. Yes, sympathetic to our plight. That he understands what it is to leave the Church—”
“We’re not leaving the Church,” Gwenneth interrupted.
I touched her sleeve to silence her. “I know what he means. He was a monk. He understands. But what does one have to do with the other?”
“Hans says he has friends. Luther has friends. And that he thinks he can match us with suitable partners.”
Therese wadded up her rag and tossed it to the middle of the table. “That’s the end of it.” She spun on the bench and had stormed to the doorway before I caught up to her.
“Wait—”
“No. I won’t stay to hear another minute of this talk. It’s one thing to walk away from the solemn vow you took in the name of the Holy Trinity. Then, to turn your back on the truest of Christian marriage. But now—to walk yourselves into this . . . this . . .” Therese contorted her face in search of a word for the disgust lurking beneath.
“None of us have committed—”
“Like a market. Worse yet, like when I was little, with my mother. And men would come—”
I didn’t mean to slap her. I was just as surprised as Therese when I felt the sting of it radiating across my palm. Not since the days of our childhood wrestling had I struck out at a sister, and I fought back my own tears the moment I saw Therese’s welling in her blue eyes.
Loving Luther Page 10