by Cathy Gohlke
Such a vast network to keep straight and so many lives at stake—Curate Bauer spent more time than ever on his knees.
And he spent so much time trying to avoid Father Oberlanger that he was greatly surprised when later that morning the priest stopped him in the square and quietly affirmed the Marian instructional sessions and Bible studies for older girls, as long as they could safely be slipped beneath the noses of the Gestapo.
“Even those parents who are members of the Nazi Party are not eager to give up our Catholic traditions or the training of their children, Curate. That’s not the way of the people of the Passion.” Father Oberlanger leaned close and tapped the curate on the shoulder, as if confiding something more.
Curate Bauer wished that the village parents’ staunch spirit led to helping those who truly had no voice in this Nazi regime. But he dared not say that aloud. He wasn’t certain where the old priest stood; he met so frequently with the Nazi officials lording over the village.
It wasn’t that Jews were eager to hide in Oberammergau. Dramatized and distorted scenes of the Passion Play and the vicious responses of some theatregoers made the village a potential hotbed for anti-Semitism, easily compatible with Nazi propaganda. It had become a place for Hebrews, whether Christian or not, to avoid. But a few Jews could be safely slipped among the refugees flocking to the village, especially if the map of their heritage was not written on their faces.
Curate Bauer sighed later as he polished the crucifix in the church. More resisters could be such a help—especially if they were willing to supply food or hiding places within their homes or shops.
Father Oberlanger stopped in the church, clearly preoccupied. “I’m meeting later today with our Nazi official, seeing if I might convince him to keep his hands off our festival and Corpus Christi procession.” He was halfway down the aisle when he appeared to just think of something. “If you happen to be away today, Curate, it won’t matter. I’ll be meeting with the Hauptsturmführer.”
Curate Bauer felt again that the priest was urging him forward, though he couldn’t be certain.
Jason loosened his tie and raked his hair into place, pulling his typewriter closer. He had stories to get out—Friederich’s stories, related through Curate Bauer, of Nazi atrocities in Poland that should rock the world.
He prayed they would incite governments sitting on the sidelines to band together and crush Hitler before he obliterated the Jews and Poles and everyone else in his mad path to world domination.
It was not a story the chief would print or sell, but Jason had other avenues. As soon as he phoned New York through his private source—he’d never get typewritten copy past the censors—he’d contact Dietrich Bonhoeffer with the number Frau Bergstrom had given him. Dietrich would want to know all that Friederich had told the curate, if he didn’t know already.
The fact that the Nazis were driving Poles from their homes so Germans could resettle there, taking over their houses and possessions, was new information. More “living space.” Meanwhile, Poles were sent to concentration camps or simply massacred.
Learning that a friend had participated in herding Polish Jews into a synagogue and watching as they burned alive had been the last straw for Friederich. He’d placed himself in the line of fire, knowing he could not carry out another sadistic order and face his God.
Jason knew that by the time distorted Polish war propaganda reached the German people, it would in no way resemble the truth. The Volk, no doubt, would go along, apathetic, or nod their heads, turning a blind eye. “After all,” he’d heard a thousand times, “Herr Hitler is rebuilding Germany. As he told us from the beginning, there will be sacrifices required.”
Jason grunted. As long as the sacrifices required belong to others.
Despite the Party line, no one could pretend they’d not seen the inhumane treatment of Jews on the streets of Germany each day—the complete stripping of Jewish rights and citizenship, the expulsion of Hebrew Christians from churches, expulsion from civil service, schools, universities, symphonies, and newspaper ownership. Marriage to Gentiles was forbidden. Confiscation of goods and property was the norm, as was denial of medical and dental treatment, stricter and more severe rationing of food and clothing—of everything—than for Gentiles. And then there was the “relocation” and constant intimidation, the threat of concentration camps, rape, and torture by the Gestapo and SS.
He could only hope that America and Britain would listen and respond with greater force. What worried him most was something Dietrich had mentioned observing during his visit to America—the way Americans treated Negroes. Not so different in some ways than German citizens treated Jews at the beginning. If Americans treat our citizens in such a way, will they step up to the plate to protect their own or the world’s Jews? He wasn’t sure.
“No, no,” Rivka admonished. “Not that way. Try again. Open your palm, hold it against your chest . . . There, that’s it. Now circle.” She stopped. “You’re circling the wrong way, Friederich. Please pay attention.”
Friederich humbly nodded and shifted in his chair, stretching his game leg out the best he could. Amelie tugged on his sleeve and he opened his arms. She climbed onto his lap and looked at him expectantly. He would try the sign again—for her. It was a good thing Rivka and Amelie were patient and encouraging teachers. He didn’t mind that they found his fumbling efforts amusing. His large fingers didn’t seem to bend and curve so flexibly as those of the women—even Oma’s, no matter that his were stronger from years of woodcarving. And he was still regaining the ability to focus for lengthy periods of time.
Amelie laughed as he made the wrong sign once more, grabbed his hands between her small ones, and did her best to maneuver his fingers into position. Friederich wondered if pretzels felt this way.
“You’ll get it in time, my love.” He felt a soft kiss nuzzled into the back of his neck and smiled. Practicing the signs had added benefits. Lea loved to watch him with Amelie and he knew his efforts pleased her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to please his precious wife.
“What would we do without Amelie to lighten our days?” he sighed.
“I hope we never need learn,” Lea whispered in his ear, sitting beside him, trying the new sign Rivka continued to demonstrate.
Friederich hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud. He did that a great deal lately—spoke his thoughts without meaning to. He looked around the room. His comment had sobered each of the women and caused little creases in their brows, as well as Amelie, who’d responded quickly, pulling away, so sensitive to the reactions and nuances of her grown-ups.
Friederich deliberately smiled again, hugging Amelie to his chest, tickling her cheek until she, too, smiled again, laughed again, and pulled his fingers into the shape of the sign. Friederich, much relieved, determined to be more careful in the future. They all needed as much joy, as much hope as their lives could afford. He must do his part in providing that.
Lent had barely begun when the Nazi order came that all crucifixes and Catholic imagery were to be removed from classrooms. Even normal school prayers were banned. Father Oberlanger turned grayer. At first, parents were too stunned to react. But before the week ended, the outraged village parents—mostly mothers left at home, thanks to the war—protested, demanding that the symbols and freedom to pray be returned. How could a village whose entire identity was defined by the Passion Play be expected to give up their hand-carved imagery?
In neighboring Ettal, Curate Bauer saw protesters who threatened to desert Nazi Party organizations and withhold donations to the winter funds designated to assist the poor and needy. Men in the beer hall claimed those funds went straight to Nazi coffers and that threatening their wallet was a sure way to garner attention. Irate wives vowed to write their husbands at the front and tell them of the Nazis’ latest ploy, creating dissension in the military ranks—the Reich’s greatest fear.
In the throes of the battle, Curate Bauer lamented to Rachel one afternoon after the c
hildren’s theatre class. “That such a thing could happen in Germany!”
“Nothing in Germany surprises me now, Curate.”
“You are too cynical.”
She shook her head, packing her small prop bag. “Just a realist. I’ve looked at the world through the glasses I was given. Now I’ve taken them off. It’s surprising how distorting the wrong pair of glasses can be.”
He sighed. “I suppose nothing like this could happen in America.”
“Banning prayer from schools? Stripping crucifixes from walls? That would be like taking down the Ten Commandments in the United States. I’ve never been a churchgoer, but I can’t imagine such a thing happening. The churches, even the people who aren’t churchgoers, would never stand for having their rights stripped away like that.”
By the end of the week, Berlin resounded with the tremendous clamor and crucifixes were restored. Curate Bauer watched as Father Oberlanger, proud of his parish for their pro-Catholic stance, applauded the fortitude of the parents at every opportunity.
But Curate Bauer knelt alone in the darkened church before the altar and wept. What if these same parents had risen up and so vigorously protested the Nuremberg Laws stripping Jews of citizenship and rights? What if they had demanded that the elderly, the handicapped, the mentally challenged, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies, Poles, the Jews themselves—so many targeted by Hitler—be spared? What if the church, Catholic and Protestant, had refused allegiance to Hitler and maintained Christ as its true head?
Have mercy, and forgive us, Father. We’ve saved our sacred images, but sacrificed Your image within our souls.
48
THE BITTER winter cold gave way. The city’s snowbanks all but disappeared. Jason was recalled to Berlin to cover for a correspondent sent back to the States.
“So, why was Keifer sent home? I thought he was here for the duration.”
Eldridge dumped a sheaf of papers on Jason’s desk. “Shot off his mouth to a New York paper about the Gestapo throwing dissident priests into concentration camps and torturing them. They figured he’d leaked the stories about Poland. Chief was lucky to get him out of the country before the Gestapo took him. Nazis don’t think much of having their handiwork exposed, or didn’t you know?”
Jason ignored Eldridge’s sarcasm. He was sorry Keifer had taken the blame for the Poland stories, but at least he hadn’t been sent to one of the prison camps—a foreign journalist’s unspoken threat. If Keifer’s early trip home meant there was still a chance Jason could expose more Nazi dirt, that was a plus. “So what’s my assignment?”
“Church news, old boy. You did such a fine job on that Bonhoeffer story that the chief thought you could take on something new—with more discretion than Keifer, of course.” Eldridge grinned. “It’s not my cup of tea, if ya catch my drift.”
Jason did, and he was glad for the assignment, though he wasn’t about to let Eldridge know. He nonchalantly leafed through the pages.
The church news—Catholic and evangelical alike—wasn’t good. From reports in the field, the number of priests and pastors arrested for speaking against Nazi aggression had grown. Even those who weren’t speaking out—if they weren’t heiling Hitler—were being watched, their letters intercepted, their phones tapped. Gestapo routinely sat in to observe and report on sermons.
Jason’s immediate concern was for Curate Bauer. He knew of at least two dozen refugees hiding in Oberammergau and the surrounding countryside, all under the curate’s protection. How many more there were, or who could help them if Bauer were arrested, was anybody’s guess. At least the curate was quiet about his business and had no private phone to be tapped. It was his constant busyness, his running to and fro, that drew attention.
And busyness was what worried Jason about Dietrich. Bonhoeffer did not deliberately draw attention to himself, but he refused to hide behind the Nazified skirts of the National Reich Church. He was allowed in Berlin only to visit his high-profile parents—surely because of them he’d not yet been arrested. Either that or the Nazis hoped he’d lead them to others equally deserving of their attention.
But Jason knew his new friend would find a way to stand and serve, no matter where, no matter what they did to him—even if it meant cloistering himself for a time to write another book, a book that would no doubt incite and turn the church on its ear.
Nachfolge had certainly done that for Jason. He prayed it would do the same for Rachel.
Jason spent the next week pounding out story after story. He saturated the chief with Berlin church news, which made it easier to wrangle an assignment for the story that took him just where he wanted to go—Holy Week in the Passion Village without a Passion Play.
He tried to convince himself that his motives were selfless, that he could use the opportunity to deliver more passports and forged papers to Curate Bauer. That he needed to touch base with Friederich Hartman and see for himself that little Amelie was safe. But he couldn’t wait to see a certain young woman, couldn’t wait to see what she thought of Bonhoeffer’s book.
That reminded him of the film.
Jason waited until evening, when the newsroom was empty. Just before leaving for Munich, he reached into the back of his desk drawer for the small cylinder he’d taped to the inside top. The first time his hand swept the empty space he wasn’t concerned, certain he’d just missed it. But the second swipe and a third left him empty-handed. He pulled out the drawer, checked the back, checked each of the drawers and the floor. Finally he switched off his desk lamp and sat, every imaginable scenario racing through his brain. None of them good.
49
“THE CHILDREN were magnificent!” Curate Bauer whispered in Rachel’s ear as the roomful of parents rose to their feet in applause. The Easter skit had come off beautifully, down to the tiniest performer. Rachel, nearly bursting with pride, crowed over her charges. She was thrilled to play Lea for the day, and grateful to her sister for exchanging places and watching Amelie.
It wasn’t the Passion Play by any stretch of the imagination, but a story about a child who came to know Jesus, a skit she and Lea had secretly written together—an Easter miracle all its own.
In the process, Lea had insisted Rachel read the Gospels, focusing on Jesus’ last week. Initially, Rachel had balked at the notion, remembering her father’s claims that Christianity and its book were crutches for the weak, a soft religion for those unable to navigate life under their own steam. The Nazis said the same, ridiculing the idea of a sacrificial, suffering Savior rather than one strong in military might like their Führer.
But once she realized her prior programming, Rachel was willing—determined—to investigate for herself. She was surprised to find that Jesus was not the weakling her father had insisted, but a strong and radical man who stood against the hypocrisy of His time. That unsettled her, shifted her moorings. But she kept at it.
When she’d finished reading, she and Lea wrote the skit in a sitting, then edited and edited for days, until every line sang. Rachel had imagined the story from Amelie’s viewpoint, a little girl who came to Jesus in need of help—Lea added that she came in need of forgiveness.
But Rachel knew she was that little girl, that parentless child who recognized her need at last. She wanted her ending to be as happy as the child’s in the skit, but that required belief in Jesus as the Son of God. Rachel winced. Belief—in anyone or anything—was more than she could swallow.
Rachel saw the light of that belief and accepted forgiveness in Lea’s eyes and life, in Oma’s and Friederich’s. She wanted that feeling of being clean and whole too, but yielding, humbling herself, raked against the grain of her self-sufficiency.
“An unusual rendition, Frau Hartman,” Father Oberlanger suggested, making her jump, bringing her back to earth. “May I ask what script you used?”
“I wrote it myself.” Rachel could not keep the pride from her voice.
“I see.” But Father Oberlanger looked none too pleased. “You unde
rstand, do you not, that all scripts must be presented to the council and are subject to their approval?”
“No, I didn’t—I mean, yes, I understand that about the Passion Play,” she stammered, “but I didn’t think it applied to simple skits for the children.”
He raised his chin. “You’ve lived here your entire life, and yet you don’t know this? You are mistaken. Because we are at war does not excuse us from conforming to established guidelines.”
“It was just a little skit,” she defended. “I thought the children did very well, didn’t you?”
Curate Bauer stepped into the breach. “The children were wonderful, Frau Hartman. We very much appreciate your fine endeavors with them.” He glanced at grim Father Oberlanger. “Please forgive me, Father. I should have spoken with you about the script. I did not think.”
“Not thinking,” Father Oberlanger replied, “can be very dangerous, especially in these times. You may have noticed our Gestapo guest?”
“Yes, Father.” Curate Bauer spoke humbly, much to Rachel’s chagrin. “It won’t happen again.”
“I hold you responsible, Curate.”
“Yes, Father.”
Rachel waited until the older priest had walked away. “Why did you kowtow to him? You know the play was well done. The parents were pleased as punch! What is his problem?”
“His problem,” Curate Bauer whispered, “is the Gestapo agent scribbling away in the last row. And Maximillion is not on duty outside the door because he loves the church. He’s a snitch in Hitler Youth uniform—not one of your American Boy Scouts.”
Rachel waved the notion away. “Maximillion is moonstruck and harmless. And what can the Gestapo possibly complain about? This is the Passion Village. Plays about Jesus are the norm, not the—”
