“You recognise Bishop Bell, of course,” Dr. Ottershaw was saying quickly. “He’s on his way to Salisbury, but he’s just dropped in for … Dear me, if I say ‘elevenses’ will I sound like Winnie-the-Pooh?”
“But I didn’t come to eat elevenses!” said Dr. Bell amused. “I came to meet Mr. Aysgarth.” He held out his hand to me. “How do you do, Archdeacon—I’ve been hearing great things about you.”
I was so astounded by this amazing piece of information that I could only say blankly: “Me?” Automatically I struggled to work out the nature of the colossal mistake which had obviously been made.
Dr. Bell said to his host: “Show him the letter,” and Dr. Ottershaw, who had been holding some sheets of notepaper in his hand, at once proffered them to me.
I recognised the regulation paper of the prison camp. I read the opening words: “My Lord Bishop,” and recognised Hoffenberg’s clear script. Illumination dawned, and gradually, as my stupefied gaze travelled down the pages, I realised that my prisoners—not just Hoffenberg but all the men who had responded to my presence among them—had laboured to construct a testimonial. The final paragraph read: “Mr. Aysgarth brought hope where there was despair, faith where there was distrust and charity where there was only hatred and bitterness. He brought Christ to us and helped us to see the crucified God. He listened, he endured with us, he understood our sufferings, and we wanted the best bishop in England to know this, the bishop who knows that not all Germans are Nazis. Thank you for all you did for Dietrich Bonhoeffer and the German Confessing Church. Yours respectfully, sincerely, gratefully …” And then the long list of signatures began.
The letter slipped through my fingers and dropped upon the desk. Dr. Ottershaw was saying happily: “Now, isn’t that a splendid letter! But I feel so guilty that it came as such a surprise to me—Colonel Laker did tell me, of course, that he was pleased with you, but I had no idea, Neville, no idea that you were giving those men such very exceptional pastoral care!”
“I wasn’t. I’m not. The letter’s quite undeserved.” In my embarrassment I was at my worst: shy, wooden and awkward. “No good at difficult pastoral work,” I said. “Not in the least accomplished. In fact really rather a failure.”
“Could failure have inspired this letter?” said Bell before Dr. Ottershaw could attempt a well-meaning protest. “I think not. The gifts of the Spirit can be recognised by their fruits.”
I at last managed to overcome my extreme shyness and look directly at him. His extraordinary eyes were brilliant with an unmistakably genuine interest, and it was then I realised he possessed that rare and fabled gift for making a stranger feel special, cared for, even cherished—and all within the space of a few minutes.
“I wonder if you have the time,” he said, “to sit down for a moment and tell me how you became involved in this work and how you approached such a very demanding task. Would you mind talking about such matters to me?”
There could be only one answer to that. We all sat down, Dr. Ottershaw behind his desk, Dr. Bell and I in high-backed chairs opposite him, and driven by an irresistible compulsion to confide at last in someone who I knew would understand, I prepared to “deliver my soul,” as the Victorian preachers used to say, to my Uncle George.
8
“I didn’t seek the work,” I said, “but the work seemed to seek me. There were all kinds of obstacles in the way, ranging from the usual regulations against fraternisation to the fact that the camp wasn’t even in my archdeaconry, but the more I hoped the work would pass me by the more the obstacles which separated me from it seemed to melt away. The other Archdeacon—” I hesitated, not wanting to tell tales about my rabidly anti-German colleague, but Dr. Ottershaw said firmly: “Quite unsuitable,” and Dr. Bell, effortlessly hearing all that remained unsaid, murmured: “I understand.”
“Then various unforeseen events occurred,” I said. “There was a riot and a lynching. The few German pastors for one reason or another all fell by the wayside, but the new Commandant appointed after the riot was an active Christian and he felt strongly that in the absence of German pastors an English clergyman should be permitted to call regularly at the camp. War Office permission was eventually obtained and the Bishop asked me to deal with the matter as I thought fit.
“Immediately I made up my mind to delegate the work. I knew I had to go to the camp for a reconnaissance—there was no way out of that—but I thought I’d be able to push the work off onto a volunteer from the ranks of the retired diocesan clergy, someone who had considerable experience of a tough chaplaincy in the prison service or the Army. I thought that as Archdeacon all I was obliged to do was spy out the land: estimate the number of men likely to be interested, decide what kind of services would be possible and how often they should be held, get some idea how far an Englishman would be allowed to talk to the prisoners in distress. I thought it likely that there would be considerable antagonism to the idea of services and absolute antagonism to the idea of individual counselling—in fact I thought that the prisoners who talked to me might later be the victims of reprisals.
“However, the camp had been radically reorganised since the lynching—the camp hierarchy had been broken up when the super-Nazis were kicked north to Caithness, and with far fewer Grade C prisoners still around, Colonel Laker was determined that the Grade A’s shouldn’t be intimidated. He told me on my first visit that he was prepared to back me all the way in whatever I decided to do.
“Of course I didn’t tell him I had no intention of coming back. I managed to get all the information I needed by talking to him about the men and inspecting the room which could be used as a chapel, and then just as I was deciding with relief that I could escape, he said: ‘I expect you’d like to meet some of the men, wouldn’t you?’ And I couldn’t quite work out how to say no. I didn’t want him thinking I was flunking my Christian duty. So off we went to meet the men.
“He took me into the long Nissen hut where the Grade A’s were quartered, and immediately I was reminded of a terrible boarding school where I spent a year at the age of seven. There was the same smell of mildew and sweat, the same atmosphere of apathetic misery, and in that instant the men ceased to be merely German prisoners. They became just prisoners who happened to be German, prisoners not so very different from the prisoner I myself had been long ago in my childhood up in Yorkshire.
“I thought: Poor bastards. And I was surprised because I hadn’t expected to feel genuinely sorry for them. I suppose I had anticipated a stern aloof Christian compassion laced with fury whenever I remembered the Baedeker raids. To be honest, I’ve never had much time for any foreigners. I’ve had a hard enough time dealing with the foreigners who live directly beyond the boundaries of my native Yorkshire; dealing with the foreigners who live beyond the White Cliffs of Dover has always been a challenge I’ve never felt in the least inclined to meet.
“Anyway, no sooner had I stepped into the Nissen hut than I realised I had nothing to say. The whole scene was appalling, a clerical nightmare. I’d never felt cut out for pastoral work—and certainly not pastoral work on the heroic scale—yet there I was, dumped among a horde of hostile foreigners and apparently required to communicate with them. Dreadful. I felt so humiliated by my complete and utter incompetence. I could only think: I’ll never come back, never, never, never. I’ll make sure the poor devils get the very best chaplain I can lay my hands on, but I’ll never set foot in this place again. And then …
“Then Colonel Laker said to me: ‘Some of these fellows speak quite good English,’ and he called out to the men: ‘Can someone volunteer to tell Mr. Aysgarth a little about himself?’
“It was Hoffenberg who stepped forward first—the pen behind that letter. He wasn’t at all an appealing young man. He was large and plain and ungainly. But he spoke excellent English, and as he told me how terrible it was to be locked up indefinitely, cut off from his home and family, I found myself back in Yorkshire again at that terrible boarding school. So when h
e said at the end: ‘Will you come back?’ I … well, I had to say yes, didn’t I? I couldn’t have said anything else. I knew how he felt, you see. I’d been there and I knew.
“Well, when I realised that I had to take on the work myself I tried to plan it like a military operation—being very thorough and paying great attention to detail. I thought that might make up for my pastoral deficiencies. I didn’t actually have much time to set aside for the camp, but I made time, juggling my appointments during the day and staying up late at night to plan my campaign. I suppose I could have got away with one service a month and a bit of chat afterwards—just a gesture which would have ensured that the Church maintained a benign presence in the camp—but I thought: No, that’s not good enough. If I’m going to be a failure, let me at least ensure that the failure isn’t the result of sloppy work and lack of effort.
“I spent some time researching and planning a service which would be acceptable to anyone who wasn’t a Roman Catholic. (No good trying to woo the R.C.S, of course—I knew it was a priest or nothing for them.) Once that was done I realised I had to surmount the language barrier, so I got hold of the master who teaches German at Starbridge Grammar and together we hammered out a short sermon. My schoolboy’s German was very poor—although I’m fluent now after all the practice—but at least I knew the rudiments of the language and at least I was capable of achieving a passable accent.
“Finally I held my first service. A few listless spectators turned up but when I started speaking German they were electrified. Afterwards they said: ‘We never thought you’d care enough to do that. When will you do it again?’ They were almost friendly—and Hoffenberg was so pleased by my success. If he’d been a puppy he’d have wagged his tail.
“After a time I had to seek permission to use a larger room. Naturally a lot of prisoners never came near me, but it was surprising who did. Even the Catholics turned up to hear the sermons in the end! They would never receive the sacrament from me, of course, but at least there was some sort of participation. I slogged on. Sometimes I wondered if I was really getting anywhere at all—the apathy was so great that I often felt as if I was wrestling with a series of inert punch-bags—but sometimes on the better days I was able to think: Maybe there is some point in my presence here. I certainly enjoyed talking to Hoffenberg and I was pleased when after a while a sizeable number of other people wanted to talk to me as well—even the Grade B’s, the neutrals who had been very stand-offish, began to drift into the chapel out of curiosity. That was a victory of sorts—nothing dramatic, just a small step forward—but so often it seemed that for every step forward I’d slide two steps back. I used to get particularly discouraged when new people turned up at the services, only to yawn and walk out.
“Then in May 1945 morale broke among the Nazis and suddenly there was drama, a lot of it, and I wound up trying to minister to the Grade C men as they went mad or tried to commit suicide or both … But don’t think I was a wonder-worker. I wasn’t. In fact I think I was probably absolutely useless. But perhaps all that mattered was that I was there, a symbolic presence in their macabre psychiatric hell—oh, what gruelling work it was, terrible, so harrowing, and all the time I was more conscious than ever of my painful shortcomings as a clergyman.
“Fortunately time’s always moving on. Some of the Grade A’s have already been repatriated—Hoffenberg himself is leaving soon—and perhaps by this time next year the camp may be closed. It’s not so bad there now. Colonel Laker made a success of the place and at present there are plenty of activities and entertainments and opportunities for study. Life there became better too when the fraternisation regulations were relaxed and the prisoners could get out and about a bit. I organised regular Sunday outings to the Cathedral for Evensong—and arranged for the parishioners of St. Martin’s, my church, to offer hospitality … There’s a lot that can be done for the men nowadays. But I often wonder what will happen to them all when they get back to Germany—if indeed there’s anything left for them to get back to. Hoffenberg lost his home and all his family when Dresden went up in flames.
“Perhaps I would have found my work at the camp easier if I’d been able to talk over the experience with someone, but it’s always been my hidden ministry, the ministry I could never discuss. I couldn’t speak about it because … to be absolutely honest … well, the real truth is that I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing how much I’d come to sympathise with the men—I couldn’t bear the thought of people pointing a finger at me and saying: ‘He’s soft on Germans!’ I’ve been such a moral coward. I thought if people believed I was soft on Germans my career would be adversely affected—but oh, how I despised myself for my cowardice! And every time you rose to your feet in the House of Lords to show me the right way forward—the way I hadn’t the guts to take—I felt so weak, so unworthy, so utterly unfit to be a clergyman.”
I stopped. My narrative had ended, and all I could add as a postscript was: “Crippling shortcomings. Contemptible behavior. Quite undeserving of that letter, as I’m sure you must now agree.”
But Bell leant forward. I could not look at him, but I was aware of the warmth of his personality enfolding me as he exerted his fabled gift for making a stranger feel cherished. “But surely,” he said in the famous mild reasonable voice which masked his stubborn determination to present the truth as he saw it, “actions speak louder than words? Many people support my beliefs publicly with fine speeches, but do nothing more. You said nothing in public yet in private you did everything which was required of you—and the result was that something very important happened—important for those men and important for you too … Forgive me for being inquisitive, but may I ask if you’re a pacifist?”
“I was. But not since Munich.”
“I was just wondering if you had some pressing reason for not volunteering to be an Army chaplain. You must have been within the age limit when war broke out.”
“Neville thought of volunteering,” said Dr. Ottershaw quickly, “but I talked him out of it. Pure selfishness on my part, I’m afraid. He’s such a very able archdeacon.”
But I looked at Dr. Bell and said: “The Bishop talked me out of nothing. I hated the thought of doing that type of pastoral work—but as the years passed I began to feel guilty that I was safe and snug on the Home Front while other clergymen of my generation were being so very much more heroic. And I’ve often suspected that it was this guilt which provided the psychological compulsion to keep visiting the Germans when all I really wanted to do was stay away.”
“Neville’s a Modernist,” said Dr. Ottershaw hastily, as if this eccentric reference to psychology demanded an explanation.
“Far be it from me to cast aspersions on Modernism,” said Dr. Bell amused, “but can the wonders of psychoanalytical theory really explain the whole of this remarkable success of yours, Archdeacon? I think not.” He rose to his feet before adding: “Now that you’ve so triumphantly overcome your reluctance to deal with anyone born beyond the White Cliffs of Dover, have you ever thought of working in a European context?”
I could only stare at him.
“This era of post-war reconstruction is a very exciting and challenging time for the churches,” said Bell, “and there’s much work to be done, not only in the occupied zones but in Geneva at the secretariat of the World Council of Churches. A German-speaking clergyman with a first-class record as a pastor of POWs would have a lot to offer.” Before I could attempt a reply he added with a laugh to Dr. Ottershaw: “Forgive me for behaving like a poacher, but I think your Archdeacon’s admirable modesty is leading him to undervalue his achievements and narrow his perspective on the future.”
Dr. Ottershaw at once became fluttery. “Well, of course Neville knows I’d never stand in his way—and if he should ever feel that God’s calling him into a different field—”
“God may have quite other plans for Mr. Aysgarth.” He held out his hand to me again. “Goodbye, Archdeacon, and when you’re next passing throu
gh Chichester, do stop and call upon me. Remember three things: my wife and I keep open house, I shan’t forget you, and I sincerely hope we shall meet again.”
To my fury I felt myself blushing. I did manage to say: “Thank you, Bishop. You’ve been very kind,” but this colourless understatement made me despair of myself. Having “delivered my soul” in such an uncharacteristic fashion, I had now apparently reverted to the role of the dour inarticulate Yorkshireman.
“Oh, and one thing more,” said Bell, pausing to look back at me as he reached the door. “It’s inevitable that you should have suffered from the non-combatant’s guilt, but in fact all that matters is that you’ve managed to use that guilt constructively. And we’re not talking now of mere psychological drives. We’re talking of how all suffering can be redeemed and transformed by the creative power of the Holy Spirit.”
As he spoke I remembered that during the First War he had been the Archbishop of Canterbury’s chaplain, confined to the Home Front while two of his brothers had been killed in action. I said: “Thank you, Bishop,” and heard my voice, no longer colourless, ring with gratitude. I felt as if I had received a very special absolution.
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