by Robert Elmer
16
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
SUNDAY MORNING, 3 OKTOBER 1943
I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings
endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides.
Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.
Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.
—ELIE WIESEL
Steffen cleared his throat and looked out over the small sea of faces in Sankt Stefan's congregation, waiting expectantly for him to begin the liturgy and read his prepared sermon on Mattæus, the sixth chapter. The one about serving two masters and not worrying about tomorrow.
He looked down again at his shoes, wiggling his toes to feel how soggy they remained after his dip in the Sound.Holding them over candles when he arrived home hadn't helped much. He cleared his throat again and pulled out the crumpled paper, the letter he'd shown to Henning. This would not be a usual Sunday, particularly since he'd not slept all night. This would be a first, in more ways than one.
"Before we begin this morning," he began, "I've been asked to read you the following letter on behalf of all Danish bishops."
He looked up once more to see every eye on him. Pastor Viggo nodded from his usual seat in the third row from the rear. He already knew what the letter said.
"It says that the Danish bishops have on September twentyninth, this year, forwarded the following communication to the leading German authorities."
Steffen tugged at his earlobe and worked his jaw up and down, trying to set the last bit of seawater free, then flattened the letter out in front of him and resumed reading.
"Wherever Jews are persecuted as such on racial or religious grounds, the Christian Church is duty bound to protest against this action . . ."
Duty bound. As he continued reading he could not escape those words, even as they pummeled him so hard he felt beaten and bruised. And the worst part was, he used to think he understood that phrase, and even how to live his life by it.Now he only knew that he knew nothing of the sort. Because whatever had once been duty to him, something else entirely had taken its place. So as he kept reading, his voice began to shake.
"Number one: Because we can never forget that the Lord of the Christian Church, Jesus Christ, was born in Bethlehem . . ."
The letter went on about God's promise and His chosen people, the call to love others, and the Danish concept of justice. "Despite differences of religious opinion," he read, "we will struggle for the right of our Jewish brothers and sisters to preserve the same liberty that we prize more highly than life itself."
Even if it meant rowing out into the choppy cold waters of the Sound with a boatload of illegal Jewish refugees. Steffen did his best to maintain his composure as he read the letter's final paragraph, but he found his voice rising with emotion.
"The leaders of the Danish church are fully aware of our duty to be law-abiding citizens who do not set themselves up against those exercising authority over us."
This part sounded like the old Steffen, the Steffen he once understood. What came next did not, and the truth dug in its teeth and shook him like a dog would shake a knotted rope.He took a deep breath, certain that no one would understand why their pastor was disintegrating right in front of them.
"But at the same time we are in conscience bound to assert the law and protest any violation of it. Therefore we shall, if occasion should rise, unequivocally acknowledge the words that we should obey God rather than man. Signed on behalf of all Danish bishops, H. Fuglsang Damgaard."
There. That most certainly got their attention. In fact, Steffen could only dream of such focus from his congregation when he delivered his sermons. And the thought did cross his mind that perhaps he should read this kind of letter from the pulpit more often. When he looked down at his letter, he noticed a drop of water, which startled him until he realized it was a tear.
His tear. And it shamelessly threatened to dissolve his practiced Lutheran demeanor. Because Lutheran pastors— and especially this Lutheran pastor—did not deviate from the script, nor did they entertain uninvited emotions. See now what had happened.
"Please pardon me for a moment." He turned away with a handkerchief, well aware that every eye still rested on him, and blew his nose as if a minor touch of a cold might have caught up to him in an unguarded moment. And it certainly might have, given what he'd been doing all night.
When he turned back, he'd reclaimed most of his composure, setting aside the wrinkled letter in favor of his sermon notes. He took a deep breath and shook it off.
"Well, then. Let us rise for the reading of the lesson, found today in the first book of Moses, the eighth chapter, beginning at the twenty-second verse."
He waited for the congregation to respond as they always did, in the words they had all recited since they were old enough to see over a pew:
"Praise be to thee, oh Christ."
The words soothed him, for the most part: the familiar Scripture, the antiphonal readings, back and forth between himself, the congregation, and perhaps even the Lord himself.On the best of Sundays, Steffen could easily lose himself in the service, rising on his toes in worship. Even though that would be as demonstrative as a Lutheran could expect to get, it was enough, and he assumed even God did not expect any more of him.
Now, as he read flawlessly through this Sunday's Epistle (Paul's letter to the Galatians, Galaterne, starting with verse twenty-five of chapter five) and the Gospel (his preaching text from Mattæus the Evangelist, beginning at verse twenty-four of chapter six), he could hear his own voice echoing from the lofted beams high overhead. He had once liked the sound of that voice, as it seemed to fill the sanctuary so easily, and in such a way that even old Pastor Viggo in the third-from-the-last row had no trouble hearing him. He knew just by looking, as the older man nodded with approval at all the right places. He could count on that much.
But this morning he could see his own words fall short of the ceiling and return clattering in broken pieces, back upon their heads. Inadequate and powerless, all of them. He wondered why his people didn't duck for shelter.
No one else seemed to notice, however, how he'd left out one line in the reading from Mattæus. One line that screamed his name. And when he reached that line, he simply paused and left it out, skipping over as if he'd never even noticed:
Oh you of little faith.
Worse yet, after the service Steffen had to smile and shake people's hands with appropriate enthusiasm as they complimented him on his empty words. One or two of them even seemed to mean what they said as they stepped out large oak double doors into the midday sun, trying its best to make an appearance.
"Very nice sermon, as always," said Fru Vestergaard, extending her white gloved hand. "Well said. Vel sagt."
But then she said that every Sunday, didn't she? "Will we be seeing you at the get-together this afternoon? We've invited a few friends, just a casual early dinner."
He cringed inwardly and scolded himself for not having a legitimate excuse on hand. Something. Anything. But his mind went blank, and he smiled back, helpless to refuse.
Someone, it seemed, had not informed Fru Vestergaard and her husband, Ernst, that there was a war on, that most people hardly had enough rationed potatoes to eat (certainly not enough meat), and that people were actually being gunned down in the streets. No, to Herr and Fru Vestergaard in their spacious flat in the fashionable Charlottenlund district, life went on as always, one gala after the other. Her "casual" early dinner would include many of the city's most wealthy couples and politicians, some of them dropping in just to make a brief appearance.
And if all went according to plan, Pastor Petersen would again be seated next to the Vestergaard's single daughter who possessed the most annoying laugh Steffen had ever heard, and who knew all the latest American band leaders, but very little else. Despite their wide age difference, Fru Vestergaard thought her daughter the perfect catch for a young pastor and made l
ittle effort to hide her opinions in that regard.
"Jytte will be there," said Fru Vestergaard with a sly smile."She's taking a break from her studies. Of course you would be welcome to bring a guest, as well."
Fru Vestergaard knew that Steffen would have no guest to bring, though she would mention the possibility for protocol's sake. And if there was one thing Eva Vestergaard knew, it was protocol.
"That's very kind of you. I'll . . ." His mind still raced for a gracious way out. And all this time, Fru Vestergaard never released Steffen's hand. "I'll of course be very glad to stop by.The usual time?"
"A little earlier today. Say, three? It's been getting dark so early, these days. We don't want to keep people out late."
Did she even know about the citywide curfew? Steffen doubted it. At least she finally released his hand, apparently satisfied she had set her daughter up for one more shot at the pastor. Steffen, however, now puzzled over how he could avoid another vapid, awkward conversation with the twentyone-year-old Jytte. What would they talk about this time?
But Fru Vestergaard had one more thing to give him—a 50-kroner note pressed quietly into his hand, and with a wink.She leaned into his face, as if revealing a secret.
"It's for the poor Jews the bishop mentioned in his letter," she whispered. "Perhaps you can buy something for them."
Steffen tried not to look too shocked at her gift, but he thanked her and stuffed the bill through a slit in his robe and into a pocket before the rest of the congregation passed by.
"Don't forget," she called back. "Three o'clock."
17
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
SUNDAY MORNING, 3 OKTOBER 1943
We have to go into the despair and go beyond it,
by working and doing for somebody else,
by using it for something else.
—ELIE WIESEL
Three o'clock, right. That would give Steffen a couple of hours for a quick nap before he had to report for duty at the Vestergaard home. The question was, if he fell asleep that afternoon, would he ever be able to wake up again? He wasn't entirely sure as he stepped outside the church to Nørrebrogade, kneading his forehead. His temples pounded, and his eyelids felt like lead.
"Are you all right?"
He hadn't noticed anyone coming up behind him, least of all Hanne Abrahamsen on a bicycle. She stepped off her bike and laughed softly when he jerked around.
"I'm sorry." She looked rather nice in a hand-knit white sweater and a dark skirt, with her dark hair pulled back beneath a red scarf and her cheeks rosy in the fresh breeze. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Quite all right, but what brings you here? You missed the service. Er, that was a joke."
She smiled again in that easy way of hers. No offense taken.
"Ja, I suppose I did. Actually, I just wanted to find out about my—"
"Your mother. Of course. She's fine, as far as I know." He looked around to be sure no one on the street was close enough to overhear their conversation. "I saw her onboard the fishing boat myself. Everything went . . . as planned.Pretty much."
She looked at him sideways and nodded, and he was glad she didn't ask anymore about the "pretty much."
"I'm so relieved," she said. "And I'm very grateful for what you've done. You surprised me."
"What, you mean you didn't think I'd help? It was nothing, really." He pressed his lips tightly together, still wondering if anyone might notice them talking. A quick look back at the church only showed Margrethe, scurrying about with a small trash bucket, the way she sometimes did after a Sunday service. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Nothing?" Hanne shook her head and touched his arm, which he liked. "No, you're wrong about that. You opened up your church, and you rowed people to safety, my mother included. I'll always be grateful for that. You placed yourself in a lot of danger for the sake of people you'd never met before."
"The bishop said we should obey God rather than man."Now he followed a crack in the pavement with the toe of his black shoe. "It appears that's what we're doing, these days."
"I heard about that letter. But you've saved lives. You know that, don't you?"
"I hadn't really thought about it that way." He rubbed his chin, trying to decide if what she'd said about him was true."It just needed to be done, and I wasn't sure who else would do it. You know what I mean. You save lives at the hospital all the time."
"Not like this. Not while I'm risking my own."
"But you are risking your own life now, just by staying at the hospital. Just by riding your bicycle. You really shouldn't still be here, you know. You should have left with your mother."
Judging by the way she looked at him, it might have been better had he not reminded her. "The Germans don't know who I am or where I live," she protested, her voice softening to a whisper. "I'm safe for now."
"Until they track you down, perhaps, and then you're not safe at all. But what about all those other Jews hiding at the hospital? They're still here, are they not?"
"We're getting them out as fast as we can," she said. "The boats are moving, as you know. Right now the problem is money. It's expensive to move so many across to Sweden, and some of the fishermen are pretty nervous about it. We can't expect them to do it all for free."
"So what happens if you don't raise the funds quickly enough?"
"Then everything moves that much more slowly. There's more chance of being discovered. It endangers more lives."
She gripped the handlebars of her modest black bicycle.Down at her feet, the front tire had nearly gone flat, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Look here." He crouched down to inspect the bald tire, which had been patched several times already in the spots where the rubber had worn down entirely. "It appears you might be walking the rest of the way, wherever you're going."
She sighed, a hand on her hip. And she still hadn't explained what had brought her here. But an idea occurred to him as he remembered the bill from Fru Vestergaard.
"Do you..." He paused before going on. "Do you have a plan for raising the money you're going to need?"
"We're doing the best we can," she explained. "Several of the doctors have given a few kroner. We're asking around.But as I said, it's not coming in quickly enough."
"All right." He straightened up and fished the bill from his pocket before holding it out to her. "Here's a start. But I'm going to need your help for the rest."
"The rest?" She took the money and turned it over in her hands. "Where did this come from?"
"From Eva Vestergaard, just a few minutes ago. She must have been moved by the bishop's letter."
"And you think she'll give more?"
"Maybe. I wonder if you would come with me to Ernst and Eva Vestergaard's home in Charlottenlund this afternoon."
"Charlottenlund?" Her eyebrows lifted. "That's—"
"I know. The Vestergaards are quite well off. Herr Vestergaard, you'll hardly ever see him. He sits in his library and smokes his cigar. She drags him to church on Christmas and whenever else she can. But Fru Vestergaard—Eva—is a faithful attender. She means well."
"I see. And you want me to . . . ?"
"Well, they're having some of their friends over for what she calls an 'informal gathering,' at their place. I was speaking with Eva just before you came along, and she always invites me to these galas. Every time, she asks me to bring someone along, and I know she's just being polite, but this time perhaps I will. I mean, if you'd come along."
There. Steffen could feel his heart beating a little more quickly, now that he'd said it.
"In fact," he added, "you'll be doing me a great favor by coming along. Eva has this daughter she's always trying to pair me up with. I don't really—"
"Oh, now I understand," Hanne interrupted, but Steffen couldn't tell if she was serious or if she really understood."You just need some protection, is that it?"
"That's just part of it." He smiled. "But if you're up for it, we're also going to be
doing some outrageous fundraising."
"Outrageous fundraising?" Hanne repeated the words, apparently considering, and her forehead wrinkled in concentration."What time did you say?"
Five minutes until three Hanne stood out in front of the address Steffen had given her, trying to look inconspicuous and wondering why she had agreed to something like this.She could not think of anywhere she would feel more out of place, especially as another well-dressed older couple passed her on their way up the stairs to Number 201. She'd very seldom passed through this neighborhood, much less entered into one of its most well-to-do flats. Perhaps King Christian might pay a visit as well?
Another couple made their way up from the street, carrying flowers and a bottle of wine, but Hanne looked away before they could stare and wonder. Did she really look as out of place as she felt? Would her tiny box of chokolade, saved from three years ago for a special occasion, measure up? Finally Steffen came hurrying down the sidewalk, consulting his watch as he stepped up to greet her.
"Sorry," he told her, forcing a smile. "Have you been waiting long?"
"Just got here. Well, not long, anyway." She held him back before they reached the stairwell that would lead up to the second floor. "But look, Steffen, I'm not sure if this is such a good idea. Just going to a fancy party like this is one thing, but going in and asking people for money. . . . Really, I don't know."
"It's not what you think." He looked a lot more confident than she remembered seeing him. "I've spoken with Eva, again—Fru Vestergaard—and she not only likes the idea, but she's going to make her own announcement. She doesn't mind being bold. As I suspected, she's very keen on helping out."