by Cathy Gohlke
No moral conscience and no fear of the Almighty! And what do we do—what do I do—but sit back and watch? Curate Bauer trembled in his anger against the impotency of the nation, of the church, of himself.
By the time he’d climbed the steps to the church, he was winded, the fight still churning inside him. He leaned against the door to catch his breath, to forcibly calm his breathing and spirit before entering. He’d beat his head against the door if it would help.
“Curate?” A small voice came from the darkened alcove behind the steps.
Curate Bauer started, descended the steps, and peered into the corner to better see the child—slight; he couldn’t have been more than six or seven. “You’re one of the Levys.” He hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation.
“Y-yes, Curate,” the boy stuttered, pulling back.
“Come. I won’t bite you. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Waiting for you, Curate.” The youngster crept out, looking both ways, fear of discovery written in his features. “We’re leaving today—and we won’t be back,” he whispered.
Curate Bauer’s heart sank. Another family.
“Mein Vater said to give you this.” The child pulled a package from beneath the steps—a large rectangular box wrapped in a woolen scarf. “He said you’d know what to do with it. He said to tell you it’s special—made from olive wood from the hills outside Jerusalem. Grandfather sent it to him last year, a Hanukkah gift.”
Curate Bauer remembered the day Jacob Levy had received the paint box, and word of his father’s cruel death—an announcement not shared with his children. Carefully, he unwrapped the package. The box, smooth and beautifully marked in runs of dark and light and golden brown, was more than a box to hold a fabulous array of paints and thinners and brushes and rags. It was a painting in itself.
“But there’s no time left to use it, and Father said he’s just learning to paint. He said you’d know who needs it most—that it should be used for a sacred purpose.” The child waited, but Curate Bauer only ran his hands over the beautiful surface. “We’ll be in Jerusalem next year, and Father says we can find another.” The little boy’s eyes lit, hopeful.
Curate Bauer nodded slowly, unable to speak for the knot growing in his throat.
“Father says we don’t need our house anymore, either; that someone else is needing it more and will be moving in soon. We’re going to Grandfather by and by, and he’ll have all the room we need, Father says. We’ll just have to wait nearer the border for a bit—until there’s a ship we can all fit on.”
Still, Curate Bauer could not trust his voice.
The child shifted uncomfortably and the priest knew he must pull himself together.
“Good-bye, Curate. It’s been nice knowing you.” The child held up his hand, and the priest took it in a firm grip.
As best he could, Curate Bauer made the sign of the cross on the little boy’s forehead, then whispered, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord shew his face to thee, and have mercy on thee. The Lord turn his countenance to thee and give thee peace.”
The child was halfway down the street when Curate Bauer called out, “Tell your father—”
The child stopped and turned, waiting. Curate Bauer tried again. “Tell him thank you—that I will keep this safe until he returns!”
The boy lifted his hand jubilantly. “I’ll tell him! But he said to do with it as you wish; we’ll not be back!” And he turned and ran home.
Curate Bauer wrapped the wooden box as carefully as if it were spun glass. “No,” he whispered, “you will not be back.” He pushed open the church door and stepped inside. When he’d closed the door, he walked to the right-side altar, knelt before the intricately carved crucifix, and wept.
Jason packed for one night. He dared spend no more time in Oberammergau and needed to get back to Munich for Hitler’s speech, lest the chief fire him before he got started. He didn’t know if Rachel and Amelie were still in the village. But if they were, there’d be no better time to get them out with all the focus on Hitler and his safety. A ruse might just be possible.
A story. I’ll treat it like any other story. What are the villagers doing about the Passion Play? What about the major roles? Has Jesus been called into the military? The twelve apostles? He pictured thirteen men in beards and long robes—Jesus and the twelve apostles—toting German Lugers. The image made him wince.
He hopped the morning train, stowed his bag, and pulled a notepad from his chest pocket.
“Keep your head down and your nose clean”—that had been the chief’s advice as he slapped Jason on the back and showed him the newsroom door. That and “Don’t be late with those stories. Make ’em good or you’re off the payroll.”
Jason sighed and loosened his tie for the train ride. He sure wouldn’t last long without a paycheck. He pulled his fedora down over his eyes—all the better to formulate his interviews.
But his mind returned to the conundrum that haunted him. Every passage he’d read in the Bible Frau Bergstrom had marked for him countered the things he’d assumed in life. He couldn’t say he’d been taught his values—more absorbed them over time.
The Confessing Church service he’d attended in Berlin had challenged those values—not so strongly as Bonhoeffer had written about them in Nachfolge, but his challenge had run counter to Jason’s personal belief system just the same.
Personal belief system? Is that the problem? That we’ve all just assumed truth is what we individually believe? Or is it a collective assumption? That the truth for Germany—and the truth for Britain and Poland and the US—is their own, regardless of how it affects others? Is there no truth—no universal truth—that applies to everyone? He couldn’t buy that.
He’d tried to ask a pastor he’d sat next to on the train from Berlin. But he’d sensed that the pastor feared Jason was trying to trick him into saying something inflammatory, so Jason had backed off. He got that a lot—part and parcel of being in the newspaper trade. Sources either wanted to be quoted verbatim, ad nauseam, or remain anonymous.
He couldn’t blame them. It was dangerous to be an individual in the Reich today—dangerous to be committed to or allied with anyone but Hitler and the Nazi Party. And that made aligning yourself with the radical Jesus dangerous.
Jason must have dozed because he hadn’t heard the conductor call for tickets. The first he knew was a thumping on the crown of his hat. Jason pulled it from his face, blinked, and fished his ticket out of his pocket. The conductor punched it and moved on.
The Nazi behind him wasn’t so quick. “Papers.”
Jason handed them over.
“American. And where are you going?”
“Oberammergau—just overnight.”
“What brings you to Oberammergau at this time?”
“Checking out the Passion Play.” Jason hated that every encounter with these guys made his mouth go dry.
“You’re early, Herr Young.”
The passengers around them smirked, nodded approvingly, egging the Nazi on, eager to be seen in agreement with him.
“Right—well, that’s what the world wants to know. Is the show still going on? Is anybody coming? Are tickets available?”
The Nazi’s face froze. Jason knew the guy could take everything he’d said as sarcasm and make a scene, an example of him, or he could let it go. But Jason had learned that acting afraid was as much a “come and get me” signal as standing up and brandishing a pistol.
The Nazi chose to play the magnanimous host. “We will eagerly await your story, Herr Young.” He thrust the papers into Jason’s chest. “One day.”
Jason didn’t look up but pocketed his papers and pulled the fedora back over his eyes.
“I can’t stay in this stupid cupboard another minute!” Rachel fumed, exasperated. “This is ridiculous and completely unwarranted. It’s not as if the SS is standing outside the door.”
“Don’t take that tone of voice with Oma,” Lea ret
orted. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Girls!” Oma clapped her hands as if addressing a troop of unruly children.
Amelie laughed and clapped in response, as if Oma had started a game.
Rachel threw her hands up. “She’s driving me crazy! I can’t stay cooped inside that cupboard all day with her.”
“You’ve only been inside an hour! One hour!” Lea accused. “You must practice. You said you spent days and weeks in an attic!”
“That was alone—with room at least to stretch out!”
Oma grabbed their arms and shook them both. “Stop it! All our nerves are frayed, and neither of you are helping.”
“Frau Gerda was here early this morning asking if Oma would take in a boarder—a niece of one of her boarders from Hamburg,” Lea said. “Do you understand what that will mean?”
“That’s impossible!” Rachel felt the nerves tingling on the backs of her hands. “Why doesn’t she keep the woman herself?”
“She’s already got two boarders,” Oma said wearily. “We all take in boarders during the Passion Play year—and the year before, as we prepare for the season.”
“Why? The play doesn’t start until next spring.”
“For the transients,” Lea explained, patiently drawing out each word. “There are hundreds of transients in a Passion season year—hotel and hospitality workers, cooks, carpenters, itinerant musicians, tailors and seamstresses—all looking for work, needing food, needing rooms. Even our barns and stables fill up.”
“And there are so many more now.” Oma shook her head. “The cities are emptying of women without husbands, families who’ve been evicted because their fathers have gone to the army, or those who fear the bombing and rationing.”
“And some looking for a change, who just want to get out of the city, who take advantage of the fact that Oberammergau is known to house transients during play season!” Lea huffed.
“We musn’t judge them harshly. We don’t know their circumstan—”
“That’s it, then! We’ll be boarders!” Rachel shouted.
Lea shushed her.
Rachel shook Oma’s arm. “Don’t you see? You don’t have to hide us at all! I can take a position as a skilled laborer—hotel management or something.”
“My dear, you can’t walk outside that door without the whole of Oberammergau turning its head and seeing that you are the mirror image of Lea. We could never hide you in plain view. The cupboard is the only way.”
“They won’t let you off the hook for boarders long,” Lea warned. “Frau Gerda won’t be the only one badgering you.”
Oma agreed. “There’s simply not enough room in the village to refuse.”
“There’s not enough room in the cupboard to accept!” Rachel retorted.
Lunch was a quiet affair. Amelie had eaten early and was tucked into bed for a nap, sleeping with her thumb squeezed into her mouth, looking every bit a cherub.
Lea had walked home to scrub and order her house before choir practice. She and Oma had agreed that letting it out to boarders was the only way. If it became clear to everyone that she’d moved in with Oma until Friederich returned, Oma may not be so pestered about boarders.
Oma and Rachel sat across the table from one another. Rachel set her spoon beside her bowl and tore the last of her roll. She watched Oma pass her hand over her brow and sigh.
“I’m sorry for all the worry, Oma. My friend never should have sent Amelie here.”
Oma smiled sadly. “I’m only sorry that Germany has come to this. To think that I am hiding my granddaughter and a little child in a secret cupboard in my house—it is unbelievable.”
“I don’t know how long I can do this—this hiding in the cupboard. I feel as if I’ll go mad—I’ll scream and give us all away.”
Oma reached for her hand. “No, my dear. You won’t scream. You won’t give us away.”
“I’m just not sure I can—”
“You must look beyond yourself, Rachel. You must think of others before yourself.”
Rachel tried to rephrase Oma’s words in her mind. “I look after Amelie hour after hour.”
“Yes?” Oma asked. “She is your responsibility now—your child. Is that such a sacrifice?”
“Well . . . yes, it is. I wasn’t raised for such things. It requires so much patience, so much tolerance on my part.”
Oma’s brows rose in mock amusement.
“I mean I’ve never looked after children. I certainly never had anything to do with a deaf child.”
“Is it so hard?”
Rachel pulled her hand away. “I’m not even twenty-five years old. I don’t want—”
“We are all doing things we don’t want to do, my dear.”
“You don’t want me here?” Rachel could not stop the indignation rising in her chest, the familiar bite of betrayal.
“Don’t put words in my mouth. Of course I want you here. And I want Amelie.” Oma sighed. “I simply wish it were under different circumstances.” She folded her hands. “But we must accept things as they are—be glad we’re together and make the best of these times. And we must all make sacrifices—willingly.” Oma smiled softly but gave no quarter. “It is called grace, my dear.”
32
LEA UNPACKED sheet music in anticipation of her students’ arrival. She set a plate of apple strudel cut into small squares and a jar of milk on the teacher’s desk, in full view of the class. They tended to perform even better with the promise of treats before their eyes. Several of the mothers had combined their rations to allow Lea the freedom to bake for their children, and for those children who had no families.
Lea loved pampering her students, and she loved teaching them—more than any work she’d ever done. But today she didn’t smile. Today she thought about her sister and Oma, about Amelie and Friederich.
Oma was right. With so many restrictions, Rachel could not maintain her composure much longer. Lea knew her sister had tried, but Rachel spun a whirlwind, a bright butterfly ready to burst its cocoon. And now that Amelie was here, she was no longer the center of attention—something her twin didn’t handle easily or gracefully. She’d not the temperament for self-control or self-sacrifice or for sharing the limelight.
Lea sighed, throwing her score to the piano’s rack. The problem was, she could understand Rachel—to a point. She, too, would have hated being cooped up in a tiny cupboard with someone who couldn’t understand her. But a child! How could she not love Amelie? Still, Lea would have done it without complaint because she would have been grateful to Oma for taking her in, for hiding her.
Lea knew she deserved nothing—expected to receive nothing. But Rachel seemed to expect that everyone would bend to her needs, even her wants. Rachel would not have said so, but Lea was certain her sister thought herself superior to all of them—even to Oma.
She’d as much as said their dress was provincial and their ways backward. She’d gasped at Lea’s lack of experience with makeup and fashion. She’d cringed at Lea’s stout shoes—shoes all German women wore to walk the cobbled streets and climb steep and rolling hills.
Lea sank to the piano stool. She may as well admit it—at least to herself: she did not much like her sister.
Oh, Friederich! Where are you? I need to talk all these things over with you. I need for you to see Amelie—what she could mean to us. I need you to be here, to be strong where I am not, to just be here. . . . Where are you, my love?
“Frau Hartman, are you all right?” Maximillion Grieser, dressed smartly in his Hitler Youth uniform, stood suddenly in the doorway. He was by Lea’s side in a moment. “Can I help you in some way?”
Lea roused herself, embarrassed and strangely uncomfortable in the young man’s presence. “It’s nothing, Maximillion. I’m just a little tired; that’s all.” She stood, straightening the sheets of music. “I’m afraid you caught me at a poor moment. Is there something you wanted? The children will be here any minute.”
“Only to be of
service.” He stepped closer—too close. “With Herr Hartman gone, you may be in need of help from time to time.”
Lea walked round the piano and toward the desk. “I’m quite all right, Maximillion. Thank you for asking.”
He followed her. “There is nothing I would not do for you, Frau Hartman. I hope you know that. I’m entirely at your disposal.”
Father Oberlanger, the parish priest, stepped silently into the classroom.
“Thank you, Maximillion, but I need nothing. Now, I am about to begin my class. You must have other duties.”
He looked crestfallen, thoughtful, but nodded. “You need only send for me.”
She turned away, cringing under his stare and Father Oberlanger’s open curiosity.
When Grieser had gone, Father Oberlanger, keeping his distance, offered, “I hope young Grieser is not a nuisance. The Party has stationed several of their local Hitler Youth here to be of service. It might not do to shun him.”
Lea knew that meant they were stationed to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the church and clergy. Father Oberlanger walked a fine line, fearing the Party’s interference and reports, and needing to cooperate in order to maintain as many of the church’s freedoms as possible. “He makes me uncomfortable, Father. I’m not sure his behavior is entirely appropriate.”
The priest sighed. “What is appropriate these days is up to the Gestapo, as nearly as I can tell, Frau Hartman.” He turned to walk out but paused at the door. “Try not to ruffle his feathers. It could make things . . . more difficult. These Hitler Youth are quite full of themselves, but essentially harmless.”
Curate Bauer knocked at the music room door a few minutes later, uncertain if he should disturb Frau Hartman, who looked to be praying before the arrival of her class. Father Oberlanger had told him of the unwanted attention from Maximillion Grieser. She surely didn’t need that. He sucked in his breath, hoping, praying the children had not worn her out or turned into the little he-devils and she-devils Frau Fenstermacher vowed they were.