The source of agitation is a tall blond man who speaks a sort of Americanized English with a German accent. This man, who claims he is a pastor, has dared to challenge the beloved Dr. Buchman, the great moral leader and saver of souls come from America to transform a godless Europe. It is an ironic challenge, since the German looks like a younger version of Dr. Buchman, sharing with him a round face, rimless spectacles masking intelligent eyes, and thinning hair (gray in Dr. Buchman’s case).
“I most certainly will speak to this gathering,” the German declares, “since I have been invited to do so. I have in my pocket the letter which invites me to join other Germans in publicly welcoming Pastor Hossenfelder to England.”
“A strange idea of welcome!” Dr. Buchman interrupts.
“A strange idea of a representative of Christ!” the German replies, and many of those in attendance gasp at such rudeness. In the foyer, the young people duck their heads in embarrassment and go back to the business of readying the reception.
The afternoon program began innocently enough. Hundreds of well-educated and prosperous Christians—a goodly number of clerical collars sprinkled among them—had come to hear Pastor Hossenfelder, a leading spokesman of the new church leadership in Germany. (Pastor Hossenfelder had himself hoped to be sponsored in his visit by the Church of England, but when such an invitation was not forthcoming from the skeptical Archbishop of Canterbury, he accepted Dr. Buchman’s invitation with good enough grace.)
The audience had first been treated to a rousing introduction from Dr. Buchman, the great saver of souls himself, in the following vein:
“As many of you know, I was raised in Pennsylvania, a child of German immigrants. I have continued to carry with me a great love for Germany, that land of my parents’ birth. No wonder I feel such emotion today. We are at a critical time in history, when England and my own United States are seething with Communism. What personal joy, then, to see hope arise in Germany. The new government of that great nation offers infinite”—he stands a-tiptoe and stretches his right hand toward eternity as he often does in mid-speech—“possibilities for remaking the world and putting it under God Control.”
In the foyer, the young people paused to listen and murmur their approval.
“The world needs the dictatorship of the living spirit of God,” Dr. Buchman proclaimed. He smiled and adjusted his glasses, which meant a familiar and well-loved expression was forthcoming. “I like to put it this way. God is a perpetual radio broadcasting station and all we need to do is tune in. What we need is a network of live wires across the world to every last man, in every last place, tying us all together, giving us all the same divine commands to live by. God has a plan for every person, for every nation. The liberals like to talk about the economy. But the world’s problems aren’t economic. The world’s problems are moral, and they can’t be solved by immoral measures. The world’s problems can be solved within a God-controlled democracy. And some would like to call Herr Hitler’s government a fascist dictatorship. Well, the world’s problems can be solved through a God-controlled fascist dictatorship. Because if God is in control, that’s all that matters.”
No one had paid attention to the tall German sitting at the back of the hall who squirmed on his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs and folding and unfolding his printed program into an accordion. After Dr. Buchman’s glowing introduction of the man who had labored long and hard in the missionary field of Berlin’s worst slums, fighting with great success against the godless Communists, Pastor Hossenfelder had himself taken the lectern and delivered a rambling address about the great future of Germany under Hitler and the enthusiasm of German Christians for their new government. He was met with polite applause, interrupted almost at once by his fellow countryman in the back row.
“Let me tell you,” announced the tall German, “about this man who stands before you. This is no great missionary. This man served a tiny church in a poor district in Berlin, where he was noted for his lack of attention to pastoral duties. When Hitler began to interfere in church affairs, Hossenfelder’s own congregation turned him out, because the poor of Berlin still know the difference between a Christian and a fascist. Were it not for his new role as apologist for Nazi arrogance, this man would have no platform to speak to anyone.”
Hossenfelder had turned pale and stammering, but been championed at once by Dr. Buchman, who was never at a loss for words.
“And what platform do you claim?” Dr. Buchman demanded, to a smattering of applause.
“I am Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, lately arrived from Berlin. I am in charge of the German-speaking congregations of Sydenham and East London.”
And so the donnybrook commenced, and continues even though it is time to disperse and enjoy the refreshments the young people have prepared.
“You call Hitler’s measures harsh,” Dr. Buchman is saying to Bonhoeffer. “They don’t seem so harsh to me, but rather good common sense. You seem to forget that your country was close to being overrun by Bolsheviks.”
“You tell me of my own country? You dare? What do you know of the climate of fear that has arisen in Germany in the present day?”
“I was recently in Berlin,” Dr. Buchman says. “I enjoyed a stroll along Unter den Linden, and through the lovely Tiergarten. I saw the young couples strolling hand in hand, the mothers pushing prams beneath the trees, the pretty girls reading books on park benches. I know quite a few young men here who would enjoy such a climate of fear.”
There is general laughter and more applause. Dr. Buchman beams.
“You trivialize this crisis! Germany is not a Christian nation and Hitler stands for everything that is unchristian!” Dietrich cries to no avail, for there are now scattered boos and calls of Sit down!
“If Hitler is no Christian,” Dr. Buchman says, “then we—” gesturing around him—“shall convert him.”
This raises an excited murmur until the voice of Dietrich Bonhoeffer breaks in. “That is a laughable sentiment. It is we who are in need of conversion—you and I and everyone in this room—before we can speak of Hitler.”
Which is a statement so breathtakingly absurd, this declaration to a people who know the Lord, that the hall falls silent for a moment.
There does not live the man or woman who can cost Dr. Frank Buchman his composure for more than a few seconds. He bows his head and raises his right hand palm out. His broad forehead collapses in wrinkles of holy forbearance. When he prays—and he knows prayer will not be interrupted—it is in a voice fraught with forbearance. “Lord Jesus, we are in the presence of an unruly spirit. But we know You to be the Lord and we know You have a plan for the nations of the world. Lord Jesus, we are part of Your plan or else we are cast into darkness. Bless You Jesus for Your presence among the good Christian people of Germany.” He looks up, nods to the pianist cowering in the corner. “Let us close with hymn number 316.”
Despite his agitation, Dietrich automatically reaches for the tattered brown hymnal on the rack in front of him and stands along with everyone else. They launch into a rousing version of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
He stares at the page for a moment, reads Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war, With the cross of Jesus going on before, and slams the book shut.
“Arrogant song,” he mutters in German.
Then he realizes someone has come to stand beside him. It is a man with neatly combed gray hair and piercing blue eyes who wears a purple shirt and white clerical collar. The man studies Dietrich for a moment, then closes his own hymnal as well and replaces it in the rack. Dietrich swallows hard, suddenly embarrassed at the scene he has caused, and looks down at his big white hands clutching the back of the chair in front of him. His companion begins singing the tune of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” but with different words.
Lloyd George knew my father.
Father knew Lloyd George.
Lloyd George knew my father.
Father knew Lloyd George.
; Dietrich stares at the man, who smiles back and continues to sing, more loudly now and with a sort of thumping gusto so that others turn to look at him.
Dietrich joins in on the chorus.
Lloyd George knew my fa—ah—ah—ther,
Father knew Lloyd George.
Lloyd George knew my fa—ther.
Fa—ther knew Lloyd George. AH—MEN.
The man leans toward Dietrich and says in a low voice, “My favorite hymn from the Great War.” Then he offers his hand. “George Bell. I’m the Bishop of Chichester.”
DIETRICH HAD LIKED TO THINK himself sympathetic to the plight of the poor, had even dreamed of becoming poor himself, but London called these ideals into question. One of his parishes was St. Paul’s Goalston Street, a pile of soot-blackened brick wedged into a Whitechapel neighborhood bereft of trees. The warren of streets, home to an assortment of Cockneys, Jews, and recent immigrants, smelled of fish and garbage. Canvas market stalls fronted tenements and cold-water flats that seemed little improved since the days of Dickens.
The south London suburb of Forest Hill, where he chose instead to live, was by contrast modest and middle-class, a scattering of yellow brick houses whose parlors, Dietrich imagined, housed conversations given over to football matches and the latest neighborhood gossip rather than evenings of music and intellectual discourse. Not that he inquired what went on behind the mass-produced white lace curtains. He mostly kept to himself in two rooms of the shabby manse that stood at the top of Manor Mount. He only had the first floor, since the ground floor was given over to a German-speaking school. The wainscoting in the entry hall, an elaborate prefabricated etching of entwined leaves, birds, and butterflies, was covered over with a hideous salmon-pink paint. Dietrich’s rooms at the top of the stairs had high white ceilings, peeling wallpaper, and windows that whistled with each gust of winter wind. One room was dominated by the Bechstein grand piano from Wangenheimstraße 14. His mother had ordered it crated and shipped by rail to Bremerhaven, then put on board the same steamer that bore her son across the North Sea. It had been a great comfort during the rough passage to imagine the Bechstein sleeping in its darkened bed in the hold, its silent keys awaiting his touch to call them to life. On its arrival in Forest Hill he sat down amid the splintered wood of the crate, played a Schubert sonata while imagining his family joining in with violins and cellos, then rested his head on the music stand and wept.
He was done for by a Mrs. Potts, another present from his mother. “When your brothers and sisters were married,” Paula Bonhoeffer told him, “your father and I helped each of them for a time, because we didn’t wish them to start out on their own without at least one servant. Why shouldn’t we do the same for you? After all, you’re starting a household, even if you do persist in remaining a bachelor.” Mrs. Potts was engaged at long distance on the recommendation of a pastor of Paula’s acquaintance who had served the London parishes for two years in the 1920s. (A far longer time in the wilderness than Jesus endured, the man confided to Dietrich’s mother, but she did not mention this to her son.) Mrs. Potts proved to be a bedraggled woman whose thin gray hair, sunken cheeks, and poor teeth made her seem far older than the fifty-odd years she claimed. She kept her head down at all times (except for quick, random glances over her shoulder) and often talked to herself. Her main contributions to the upkeep of the house were to chop awkwardly at the floor with a scraggly broom and to present Dietrich each morning with a limp greasy kipper, a fried egg whose hard crusted yolk crumbled beneath the edge of his fork, and a weak pot of tea. He got the rest of his meals himself.
He also learned to make his own fires, dragging a sack of coal up the frozen back stairs, shoveling and poking around the maw of the stove, washing the black dust from his hands, digging it from beneath his fingernails with a file, wiping dust from the furniture each morning, especially from the precious Bechstein, which he took to covering with a blanket. Then, at night, by the weak light of an electric lamp, he would whip off the blanket with a flourish for invisible eyes, sit carefully on the stool, and play. By turning his head he could glimpse the flailing of his shadow arms on the illumined wall. He heard the voice of the respected Kreuzer charging there was no passion in Dietrich’s playing. If only Kreuzer were in the mean rooms of the Forest Hill house listening while Dietrich brought forth thunder and anguish from the Bechstein, sometimes until three in the morning so that Mrs. Potts, who was cowering in the basement, swore to the butcher that the German gentleman she did for was possessed by the Devil.
So he found himself as though awakened from a nightmare in the library of the Athenaeum, one of Pall Mall’s most exclusive clubs, seated before a blazing hearth in a soft red leather chair and sipping ancient Scotch. He held the smoky glass at nose level, studied the man across from him, then glanced at the letter in his other hand, the letter he had received only a week earlier from Hans von Dohnanyi. Uncle Rudi is still ailing, and the doctors fear worse news in the coming months. As for what you can do, of course you cannot heal Uncle Rudi from England. You mustn’t feel bad; after all, you aren’t a physician. But I am advised it could be helpful to establish contact with the Rt. Rev. George Bell. He is the Bishop of Chichester and not only one of the most respected clergymen in England but a founding leader of this new international ecumenical movement. I would think his prayers and support might be of some benefit to poor Uncle Rudi at this time. With affection, Hans v. Doh.
“Amazing coincidence,” Dietrich said, “that I should stumble upon you at that meeting when you’re just the person my brother-in-law suggested I see.”
He handed the letter to Bell, who scanned it with raised eyebrows and said, “Uncle Rudi?”
“A sort of family joke. Uncle Rudi is a Nazi relation, a horrid man altogether. Whenever we refer to the political situation at home by telephone or letter, we use his name as a code word.” Dietrich paused and then said by way of a test, “Perhaps you think we are too cautious?”
Bell shook his head. “Not at all. I was there, you know, in ’33. The very night Hitler came to power, watching from a room in the Hotel Adlon as the parade went past.”
Dietrich set down his glass. “I was there as well,” he said in a low voice, “nearby in Unter den Linden.”
“Mesmerizing, wasn’t it?” said Bell. “The drums and the trumpets, the uniforms, all that rage and joy commingled.”
“Yes,” Dietrich said. “I know I was not myself that night, and perhaps have not been since.” He watched the fire for a moment. “What were you doing in Berlin?”
“A meeting of the World Council of Churches, some of the executive committee. Berlin’s a convenient location, or was.”
“This ecumenical movement, is it worth anything more than a lot of pious speeches? Will stands be taken?”
Bell offered a cigarette, then struck a match for Dietrich, who leaned forward as though to kiss the bishop’s ring. “Will stands be taken?” Bell said. “That’s up to us, isn’t it? I’ve seen enough of Dietrich Bonhoeffer in action to think stands will damn well be taken if he becomes involved.”
They smoked for a while in companionable silence. Dietrich was warmed by the older man’s mixture of amiable generosity and bracing toughness, by the glints of humor in the blue eyes. He judged Bell to be in his fifties, nearly old enough to be his own father, but a more genial father than he had ever known. He had not thought of a father as someone to confide in, and yet he felt he could tell anything to this man. Not that this was necessarily admirable, he reminded himself sternly, anxious to avoid disloyalty to Karl Bonhoeffer.
“…not so amazing,” Bell was saying, “that we met as we did. I’ve been watching with a great deal of interest how Buchman and these pietists of his have embraced your more conservative countrymen. I’ve been to several meetings before this one and established myself as a bit of a persona non grata. Not just because of Germany. Buchman hates the trade unions, thinks they’re all a front for Communism, has no time for the poor except to patro
nize them with claptrap about saving their souls, as if that were Buchman’s work instead of God’s. No, Buchman doesn’t like it when I show up. Not that he’d ever ask me to leave, too cagey for that, but I’m no longer called upon when I raise my hand to speak. Nor will you be from this point on.”
“Perhaps I shall not be so polite as to raise my hand,” Dietrich said. “Not that I’m used to making a scene. But I find now that I am angry, always angry. It’s not just the bullying and the threats. It’s the way all logic and knowledge and reason are twisted into their exact opposites. So that it is no longer possible to converse with these people. Only to scream at them, even to—”
Bell watched him closely.
“When I saw Hossenfelder there, that desiccated skeleton, claiming to speak for Germany, claiming to speak for Christians in Germany, I could have struck him. I could have pummeled him, trampled him until he was senseless. Which of course is not Christian either. Is the opposite of Christian. And so I wallow with them in this cesspool of evil.”
After a moment Bell said, “In the last war, I lost two young brothers. Donald and Benedict.”
“And I an older brother, Walter.”
“For a while I hated Germans.”
Saints and Villains Page 21
