by Murray Pura
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. On your way now.”
“I’ve not had better schnitzel in Munich or Berlin.” Albrecht tucked into a second helping. “Who’s your chef?”
“Mrs. Longstaff.” Lord Preston lifted a forkful to his mouth. “She’s an absolute wizard.”
“Longstaff? She’s not even European?”
“Not a hint of it. Good Lancashire stock, though there may be a touch of Viking.”
“The soup was exceptional as well.” The baron leaned back in his seat and sipped his red wine. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Where do you go for services when you’re down here, Vilhelm?”
“St. Mary’s. It’s been in Dover since just after the Norman Conquest.”
“Do you mind if Albrecht and I join you?”
“Of course not. It’s Church of England, mind you.”
The baron waved a hand. “A change of scenery is good for the soul.” He smiled at Catherine who was helping Sean with his soup. “Lady Catherine, will you attend the morning service with our crowd?”
“Certainly, Baron. It’s a beautiful stone church, and the choir and messages are inspiring.”
“How does young Sean do?”
“Very well, sir. He—whoops!” Sean spat up some soup and laughed. She dabbed at his face with a napkin. “He seems awed by the interior—all the light and stained glass—so he’s generally quiet.”
“Good for him. Perhaps he’ll make a fine theologian, eh, Albrecht?”
Norah appeared over Albrecht’s right shoulder. “Coffee, sir?”
“We can always use fine theologians, Baron. The Lord knows we have few enough of them.” Albrecht smiled up at Norah. “Nice to see you back here with your pot.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A half cup would be just right.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lady Preston interlaced her fingers on the tabletop. “Tell me, Professor Hartmann, how would you sum up the role of the theologian in this age of skepticism?”
Albrecht put cream in his coffee. “What it has always been. To bring the supernatural into the natural world so that it is just as real as anything we perceive with our five senses.”
“Bring it in? But isn’t the supernatural always here? Isn’t it all around us? Angels and devils and God and His Holy Spirit?”
Albrecht drank his coffee. “You’re right. When I speak of bringing it in, I mean to say I wish to make it obvious and credible to the human race. That it is as present as water and air, which are vital to us, and that faith in God is equally as vital. Indeed, without it, we are lifeless and without a proper path so we do not attain to our destinies.”
“Do you distinguish between orthodoxy—right teaching—and orthopraxis—right living?”
“I don’t, Lady Preston. To me it is a false distinction. You cannot have a Christian faith that is all in your head or all in your intellect. That is meaningless. It must be lived out in your actions. By the same token, a body without a head is a monstrosity—your actions must be guided by your thoughts and prayers and beliefs. So there is only the one thing, orthodoxy. And orthodoxy is right belief. And right belief is lived-out and thought-out faith in Christ.”
“Is it the wine or is my head spinning?” Lady Preston asked.
The baron smiled. “Perhaps we should remain at the breakfast table tomorrow morning and have our message here. I vote for a passage from the Gospel of Mark.”
Albrecht shook his head. “I’ve gone too far. Forgive me. I return my lecture notes to my briefcase. Let us have our coffee and dessert in peace.”
Peaceful silence permeated the room as everyone sat back in comfort.
“And here is our dessert now,” Lord Preston announced.
“Really, Vilhelm!” protested the baron. “I am stuffed, as you English say.”
“Pass on it if you wish. Mrs. Longstaff swears it’s a traditional recipe from southwestern Germany.”
Sally carried in a large cake on a tray and set it in the middle of the table. It was covered in whipped cream and cherries. Both Albrecht and the baron looked at it in astonishment, their mouths open but no words coming out.
Finally the baron sputtered, “Black Forest cake! Surely not with the cherry liquor Kirschwasser?”
“She swears it’s traditional, Gerard.”
“There is one way to find out!” Albrecht held out his side plate. “May I have a generous piece, Sally?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I think Sean will have a wonderful time with this German delicacy, Lady Catherine.”
Catherine bit her lip. “I hate to give him any, Professor Hartmann. He will just waste it. It will be all over his eyes and ears and mouth. And all through my hair.”
“Believe me, Lady Catherine, that is not wasting it.”
“You raised a few eyebrows with that remark,” Catherine commented.
Albrecht was leaning on the railing of the front veranda and looking out over the fields barely discernible in the dark. He stood up straight as Catherine approached. “What remark was that?”
“About Black Forest cake in my hair.”
“Well, it was true, although I did not mean to start a rumor with it.”
Catherine put her hand on one of the thick, white posts. “Never mind…I’m just teasing. Gallant remarks seem to pop out of you naturally.”
“Do they? That makes me sound insincere.”
“No, I think you’re very sincere. I guess it’s a gift you have.”
Albrecht went back to leaning on the railing. “Is your son asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Are you…would you…take a stroll with me along the drive?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“I love hearing your table talk, Albrecht. And I enjoyed our walk across the estate this afternoon. But I…well, I want to slow down a bit. I feel like my head is spinning, and I didn’t have a drop of wine.”
“I see.” He laughed. “You’re right, of course. I go too fast. Like a racing car driver.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize. It is because the baron informed me a few minutes ago we would be leaving immediately after lunch Sunday.”
“I thought you’d be with us until after breakfast Monday morning.”
“So did I. Something’s up in Munich, and both of us need to be there as soon as possible.”
“But you teach at Tubingen.”
“Yes, but there is no more teaching until the fall. This has nothing to do with being a professor of Protestant theology.” A smile came to his face in the dark. “By the way, I caught that Professor Hartmann title you used at the table.” He wagged his finger. “Never again.”
“You called me Lady Catherine.”
“We agreed on that.”
“I like calling you professor.”
“Do you?”
“I do, yes.” She gazed over the fields just as he was doing. “I should not say I wish you were staying on. After all, I haven’t known you but twelve hours. It’s madness. But there you have it. I wish you were with us till Monday or Tuesday. It’s like a huge roller has washed over me. I’m a bit stunned, I think. I suppose you’d better go. I need to sleep on what I’ve been feeling. Maybe I’ll feel nothing after a few nights’ sleep…or maybe I’ll feel more of everything.”
He didn’t respond for several minutes. “Do you wonder why we must up and go just like that?”
“Of course I wonder. But it’s really none of my business, is it?” She glanced at him. “It’s a very hard life in Germany right now, I think.”
Albrecht shrugged. “We see improvement every month. Inflation is on the decrease; employment is on the rise.”
“Well then, that’s good.”
“So it seems. But that is why we must return. Foolish decisions are made in times of change, especially change for the good. There is a man who was imprisoned for trying to seize contr
ol of the government a year ago when times were much worse. Now that matters have improved, some of us are worried he will be released early. He is like a stick of dynamite rolling around that no one can quite get his hands on to throw away. Yet the wick is beginning to smoke.” Albrecht’s lips were in a straight line. “As it is, he is afforded special treatment in prison. It’s almost as if he is on holiday at the castle prison in Munich.”
“Who is this man? Are you worried he has a following?”
“His name is Adolph Hitler. He has a following, certainly. I am worried that he seems to be able to appeal to a broad spectrum of the German people. The man is a revolutionary when Germany doesn’t need a revolutionary. We need peace and stability and growth. So we are working against him, Catherine, even though others say he is nothing and that the uproar he caused is over.”
“Who is this we?”
“There are a number of us. We call ourselves ‘The Brotherhood of the Oak,’ die Bruderschaft der Eiche. The oak is one of Germany’s national emblems. You English use the oak as well.” His eyes looked impossibly deep to her when he looked up. “I tell you this in secret, Catherine. Please do not share what I have told you. I’m not sure why I’ve spoken about it. Am I trying to impress you? I hope not. Perhaps I wonder if you might understand. You seem like a woman who would understand and come alongside people in a time of struggle.”
Catherine felt heat in her face. “Albrecht, I—”
“Lady Catherine, excuse me.”
“Yes?” Catherine turned away from Albrecht and faced Norah. “What is it?”
“Young Master Sean is awake and crying for you. We’re having difficulty settling him.”
“I see. Thank you, Norah. I’ll be right there.”
Norah went back into the house.
Once Norah had gone, Catherine put her hand briefly on Albrecht’s arm. “I would like you to tell me more about this. May we speak alone after breakfast before we drive into Dover for church?”
“Of course!” He gave her a smile. “I hope Sean is all right.”
“I’m sure it was just a bad dream. Thank you for asking. Ta, Albrecht.”
“Auf Wiedersehen.”
“Good morning, Papa.”
Lord Preston put down his newspaper. “Ah, there you are, Catherine. How did you and Sean sleep?”
“Not well at all. Sean is still in his crib. Where’s Mum and our guests?”
“Your mother is under the weather. It’ll just be you and me heading to St. Mary’s this morning. And Mrs. Longstaff.” He picked up a bell by his elbow and rang it. “Sally will bring you some coffee and scones.”
“But the baron was to be joining us. And Professor Hartmann…”
“Yes. They had to leave earlier than expected. Urgent business in Munich. You know how Germany is these days, my dear.”
“I see.” Catherine sat down at the breakfast table that was in an alcove off the dining hall. Rain tapped against the tall windows. “Is there any chance we’ll see the pair of them again this summer?”
Lord Preston had his newspaper up to his face again. “Mmm? This summer? I wouldn’t think so. Next summer is a good possibility however. Would you like that? Did you enjoy the baron’s company?”
“W—was there a note left…or anything?”
“A note? Why on earth would the baron leave a note? The telegram came for them at four this morning, and I saw them off at four-thirty. Ah, here’s Sally with your coffee, scones, and jam.”
June
Berlin, Germany
“I expected you two much earlier.”
“We were in England. I met with the man in Westminster you asked me to contact. And I recruited Lord Preston. This was as quickly as we could reach Landsberg Castle by car and rail.”
“You’re here now. Let’s get down to business.”
Baron von Isenburg, Albrecht Hartmann, and a third man were seated in the baron’s Mercedes. A half mile ahead of them the turrets of a castle poked through a dense growth of trees.
“It seems impossible to keep Hitler in Landsberg Castle the full five years,” the third man began, eyeing the battlements. “He has too many well-wishers. We have worked through the channels available to us to insist he serve out his full term. It’s no use. He will be released before the end of the year, perhaps as early as this fall, though we are fighting that.”
“Their argument?” asked the baron.
“Oh, you know. The Germany of 1924 is a different Germany from the Germany of ’22 or ’23. Berlin is getting a grip on inflation, the workforce is increasing, wages are improving—all of that. So Hitler will not have the base to draw from anymore; therefore, he does not need to be in detention. Apparently he will renounce violence and his former political beliefs.”
“He won’t change!” responded Albrecht.
“Of course not. But that is what officials want to believe, and he is only too happy to appear to give them what they want.” The man pulled a large envelope from a briefcase at his feet. “We should not stay here much longer. Take this. One of our men inside the castle was able to get his hands on drafts of the book Hitler is writing. He made copies. It will be published in 1925.”
The baron examined the envelope. “You have read his manuscript?”
“Most of it.”
“Well?”
“It’s the same sort of thing we have heard at his street rallies since 1920. Germany for Germans. Purebloods only. No immigration. Death to the Jews. Secure boundaries against the Russians. Down with communism. Open the east for German settlement. It’s all there, just more polished and refined. A friend is editing it for him.”
“We can’t stop the publication?”
“No, Baron. We can only prepare ourselves to argue against his arguments in print.” The man turned to Albrecht. “Which is where you come in, Herr Professor. We need a book from you to coincide with the release of Hitler’s propaganda.”
“I am a theologian,” protested Albrecht, “not a politician.”
“And Germany remains very religious with its mix of Lutherans and Catholics and Evangelicals. I am not asking you to pen rubbish. Counter Hitler’s ideology from the Bible, from your own personal convictions, from the history of the Christian faith, whatever you wish, but write as well and as deeply as you have ever done.”
“I have a full course load this coming term.”
“Will you or won’t you help us? The baron was sure you could be relied upon.”
“It’s a question of time.”
The man leaned towards Albrecht. “Hitler has an uncanny ability to draw the German people into his sphere. You saw that at his street rallies. Forty thousand people at one.”
“I remember.”
“So now his ideas will go from one end of Germany to the other with this book. Suppose instead of 40,000 he rallies 40 million to his beliefs? Can you not try to rally those same 40 million to the Christian point of view instead? Is there any possibility you can bring Germany closer to the teachings of Jesus Christ than Herr Hitler’s book brings them to the teachings of the Nazi Party?”
June
Dover Sky
“Lady Catherine! Lady Catherine!”
Catherine stood up. She looked beautiful in her white summer dress. “Yes? Sean and I are down here with the swans. Whatever is the matter, Skitt?”
Skitt came running down to the pond, and the swans quickly sailed away from shore.
“A letter just came for you by special post. I didn’t want it to sit by your place setting until tea.”
“A letter? Who is it from?”
Skitt handed it to her, yanking his cap from his head, his face scarlet from his run. “Doesn’t say. It’s not from England, that’s all I know.”
“Oh!” Her face turned as white as her dress when she glanced at the envelope. “Germany!”
“Is everything all right?”
“I hope so. Yes, yes, I expect so. Thank you, Skitt. I shall see you up at the manor.”
“Oh no. You’re a dear for running it down to me. Bless you.”
Skitt turned and headed back as Catherine sat down on the grass by Sean. He was playing with a long, white swan feather that had been shed near a tree. She held the letter in her hand, debated about opening it now or waiting. She decided to open it. With one hand on Sean’s small back, she read Albrecht’s note:
Dear Lady Catherine,
My sincere apologies. The baron and I had every intention of attending services with you and your family until the telegram arrived early Sunday morning. It was rude of me not to leave you with some sort of message, but it was all I could do to get packed, grab a bite to eat from the kitchen, and jump into my car. Will you forgive me? I very much wanted to speak with you further.
There is something about you. I must say it—I think of you constantly. Here I am at this fancy hotel in Munich, and the baron is snoring like a trumpet in the other room. At any rate, I can’t sleep. On the one hand there is the mystery of Lady Catherine to ponder. Why am I caught up with you? On the other hand there is Adolph Hitler to ponder. Why is Germany caught up with him?
I have been asked to write a book to counter Hitler’s book that is due out next year. His will be a memoir, and a political rant against the Treaty of Versailles that ended the war, and an attack on the Jews, the communists, and the socialists. Mine will be a volume of theology—but what I call “embodied theology”—a true orthodoxy that is a “lived out” orthodoxy. And it must be alive. The last thing I need to produce right now is a dry, academic treatise on the existence of God.
I’ve read some of Hitler’s book. The Brotherhood I’m involved with has obtained some early drafts. Hitler writes with passion about something he believes in. People will pick up on this. I must write with equal passion about what I believe in. Good must have as much fire and heat as hate because it’s to a better end.
I share this in strictest confidence. I wish I could share it with you in person. I fear it will be a long time before we see each other. Am I content with the time I’ve had with you? No. But I thank God for it just the same.
