“Not everyone’s pleased about that,” Bell said. “Just bring up the subject here at the club and you’ll see. But this is a free country.”
“That’s not the point,” Dietrich said, growing agitated. “It’s the method of opposition that Gandhi preaches. Nonviolence. Turning your enemy into your friend, or at least into a nonviolent opponent, by practicing love rather than using violent tactics. Surely there’s something there, something more Christian than what we Christians have been doing. If the Confessing Church is to have a chance of opposing this regime, this might be the answer. What else can be done? The word from home is that Hitler is more and more popular. The affections of the German people must be turned—”
There was a hubbub outside the library, voices raised, then the door opened and a servant entered with copies of the evening newspapers. Bell took the Evening Standard, scanned the front page, and handed the paper to Dietrich. Ernst Röhm of the SA, a potential rival to Hitler, had been murdered, along with several army generals deemed troublesome to the Führer and scores, perhaps hundreds, of other Germans whose bodies were still being discovered. The victims appeared to be trade unionists, intellectuals, government officials, and a random assortment of Jews. Dietrich handed the newspaper to Bell, said in a strangled voice, “I must call home at once.”
“I’ll take you to a phone,” Bell said.
In Wangenheimstraße 14, the phone rang but no one answered. Hans von Dohnanyi had ordered the family to stay away from the telephone for fear of a wiretap. But when Dietrich returned to the manse in Forest Hill a telegram was waiting.
UNCLE RUDI UPSET STOP FAMILY CONCERNED BUT ALL WELL STOP HANS
George Bell caught the night train home to Chichester. He found Hettie in the library reading the latest Dorothy Sayers mystery. She offered her cheek to be kissed without looking up.
Bell poured himself a glass of sherry and sat beside her.
“Dietrich is in a state,” he said. “He’s talking about chucking everything and heading off to India to live in an ashram with Gandhi.”
“Oh, dear.” Hettie tore herself away from the adventures of Lord Peter Wimsey. “It’s something every week with Dietrich.”
“I think he’s serious about this. But what a damned mistake.” Bell stretched out on the sofa with his head in Hettie’s lap. She massaged his temples. “He wants a letter from me to Gandhi.”
“Then you should refuse.”
“On what grounds? I can’t deny the man a reference. But first I’m going to insist he go to the ecumenical conference in Denmark with me.”
“You said if Dietrich went it might put him in conflict with the official German delegation.”
“Yes,” Bell agreed. “Perhaps that is what he needs.”
YEARS LATER WHEN HE THOUGHT BACK on the Danish island of Fano, Dietrich could only recall bits and pieces of the place. Glints of light reflecting off water and sand like chipped glass. Dim rooms in the conference center, thick-aired in the August heat. Flash of gull wheeling through glimmering mist, arm tallying votes on luminous chalkboard. Rumble of surf and murmur of voices. People gliding past, faces never coming into focus.
Except for a few.
The Fano retreat center, a cluster of white wood structures trimmed in crisp red, is nearly empty. Soon all the languages of the world will sound through the buildings and along the walkways, Swedish and Japanese, English and Dutch, Hungarian and Urdu. Only the leaders of the international ecumenical movement have arrived early (as well as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who accompanied Bishop Bell and sits alone in his room brooding, trying to write, filling up ashtrays). The place seems haunted, despite the newness of the buildings, which have been kept spic-and-span clean by an attentive staff. It is the emptiness, the echo of solitary footsteps down long hallways, the slamming of distant doors, that causes the early arrivals to start and look over their shoulders when they are alone.
Night. The doors and windows of a ground floor room are wide open onto a black sea, open to saltbreeze and the sound of tumbling surf. The men are seated in the light of a single lamp. Each cradles a mug of hot coffee in his hands. Bell, England. Ammundsen, Norway. Leiper, United States. Söderblum, Sweden. Henriod, the general secretary from headquarters in Geneva, and Visser’t Hooft the Dutchman, his assistant. Shadows loom large in the lamplight.
“Here it is, gentlemen,” Bell says. “In Germany a number of Christians have separated from the state church and are calling themselves the Confessing Church. They say they are the true Protestant church in Germany, and ask their delegates be recognized at this conference as the only legitimate representatives of German Protestantism. On the other hand, a delegation representing the Reich Church will be arriving tomorrow and they expect to be the only German delegation.”
General Secretary Henriod. “Like it or not, there is a state church in Germany, and Hossenfelder and his delegation are its representatives,” he points out. “If we deny them a seat, how do we justify ourselves? On what grounds do we exclude them?”
“Where I come from,” Leiper says, “when a church suffers a schism, there are two ecclesiastical bodies. Why not two delegations? Wouldn’t that be simplest? After all, we’re hardly equipped at this conference to sort out the mess in the German church.”
“I’m uncomfortable with the extremist language of the German dissenters,” Henriod adds.
Visser’t Hooft, soon to be general secretary, says, “What are your thoughts, George? You’ve had your ear closer to the ground than anyone.”
“My thoughts,” Bell says. He shuts his eyes and rubs his forehead against the heel of his hand. “Under ordinary circumstances, I would raise the same questions you have. On what grounds can one denomination claim to be the true church and declare another false? On what grounds exclude a delegation, especially the official delegation of a state church?” He opens his eyes. “These are not ordinary circumstances. And one sign of these unusual circumstances, gentlemen, is that the leaders of the Confessing Church in Germany were afraid to attend this conference, and the young man who is here on their behalf is squarely in the sights of his so-called fellow Christians of the Reich Church. At great cost.”
Sometime after one in the morning, there is a knock on Dietrich’s door, and George Bell enters. Bell places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, then removes it.
“It’s not everything you wanted,” he says. “It’s something.”
Hossenfelder stands at the registration table, suitcase in hand, flanked by several other pastors from the German delegation. With them is a man with light brown hair and pale eyes who looks vaguely familiar to Dietrich. But he is no clergyman. He wears an expensively tailored gray suit and sports a swastika pin on his lapel. He does not bother with the demeanor of fake humility employed so effectively by Hossenfelder and the others. Instead he is bored, even slightly contemptuous. He fixes on George Bell, who has approached the registration table and waved aside the woman passing out forms.
“Gentlemen, welcome,” Bell says. “Go ahead and register for the time being, make yourselves comfortable. But I must inform you there has been a challenge to your credentials. The executive committee of the council met last night to take up the matter, and a final decision will be made this afternoon before the convention officially opens.”
“Challenge to our credentials?” Hossenfelder twists his thin body like a stricken snake. “What on earth can you mean? We are the duly elected delegates of the Reich Church.”
“Nevertheless,” Bell says politely, “there has been a challenge. You will learn more at this afternoon’s meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me,” and takes his leave with the aplomb that Englishmen of a certain class seem to possess as a birthright.
Dietrich has been standing near the front door. There has been no mention of his name, and Bell has not even glanced in his direction. But Hossenfelder spies him before he can duck out, and the impeccably dressed man with the light brown hair turns to stare at him as well. Dietrich forces
himself to stare back. Hossenfelder whispers something to the other man, who smiles at Dietrich, gives a slight nod, then turns his back.
Hossenfelder is in a fury. “Two German delegations! There is only one Reich Church!”
George Bell stands at the head of the executive committee, who hover close behind him as though for protection. “The Confessing Church—”
“A minority of malcontents,” Hossenfelder interrupts. “Even their representative—” a disdainful wave toward Dietrich—“if you call him that, must admit that most Germans have remained faithful to the Reich Church.”
“The Confessing Church,” Bell continues, his voice growing harder, “claims to be the only true Protestant church in Germany—”
“Claims to be!” Hossenfelder roars. He paces the length of the conference room, then back again. “These renegades can claim to be anything they want.”
“And many of us support that claim,” Bell says quickly. He steps toward Hossenfelder and backs him toward the wall so that the German is forced to stop pacing. “The question last night was never whether to exclude the Confessing Church. The question was whether to exclude your delegation.”
“How dare you?” Hossenfelder demands. “How dare you pretend to represent the Church of England and tell me that Germany’s state church is illegitimate? How dare you attempt to interfere in the internal affairs of my country!”
“We dare,” Bell says, “because we are members of the body of Christ. That comes before country, mine or yours.”
“Before your country perhaps,” Hossenfelder sneers, “but we in Germany do not hesitate to offer ourselves as the instruments of a divine mission to the world, and we have no doubt that offering will be accepted by God.”
“You blaspheme!” cries Dietrich Bonhoeffer. He has been standing behind a chair, clutching its back to steady his trembling legs, but now he comes forward. “The Reich Church does not exist for God, it exists for Adolf Hitler. And to dare claim that as Christian! My God, if no one opposes you then Christianity is finished in the West!”
“You are no patriot, Bonhoeffer!”
“And you are no Christian!”
“Gentlemen,” Bishop Ammundsen of Norway waves his hands, “this rancor is most unbecoming. Is personal defamation necessary to settle this dispute?”
“I am willing to be civil,” declares Hossenfelder, “but I will not have my faith called into question by this—this failed pastor no parish in Germany would call. And to grant him the status of a delegation, this lone malcontent—”
“You know very well there are others,” Dietrich says, “and they are not here because they are afraid to leave Germany.”
“Hah! Why should they be afraid?”
The man in the gray suit smiles. He glances at his watch and stifles a yawn. He says in a pleasant voice, “If it is so dangerous, Pastor Bonhoeffer, why are you here?”
Dietrich wheels around to face his questioner. “You’re SS, aren’t you? Why are you here?”
The man laughs and doesn’t answer.
Dietrich turns to the committee members. “There you have the answer to Hossenfelder’s question. I must say, gentlemen, I am as unhappy with your decision as is Hossenfelder. By seating this delegation of so-called churchmen, you only delay a decision. The ecumenical movement, like the church in Germany, must choose sides. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do to prepare for this convention. I am writing resolutions which I hope will merit your support.”
Bell follows him out the door, catches him down the hall. “Good Lord, Dietrich,” he says, “what have I done by bringing you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“It would have been safer not to call attention to you. It’s one thing to talk about all this, but to see you among those others. My God, I didn’t expect the SS at this conference.”
“I did,” Dietrich says. “George, you may think you brought me here, but you haven’t. You’ve helped me these last months to see what my direction should be, and for that I’m grateful. Now, I’m going to my room to work on my resolutions. I’d appreciate your help persuading the other delegates to support them.”
He leaves Bell standing in the hall. Visser’t Hooft comes out of the meeting room.
“Hossenfelder is still angry,” he says, “but I think he’s decided to make the best of things. They’re staying.”
Bell watches the departing Dietrich. “Frankly, Willem, Hossenfelder can rot in hell for all I care.”
Other faces. Reinhold Niebuhr, his professor from Union Theological Seminary in New York. Laughing at the look of surprise on Dietrich’s face. “Well, what did you expect, Bonhoeffer?” American accent evocative as a long-forgotten tune. “You knew I’d have to get involved in this mess eventually.” Niebuhr, sitting with Dietrich on the seaside veranda of the conference center, bottle of mineral water in hand, the tip of his sharp nose turning red in the sun. (Dietrich has already taken to wearing a tatty straw hat when outdoors to keep the top of his fair, balding head from blistering.)
“Do you hear anything from Fred Bishop?” Dietrich asks.
“Fred—? Oh, Fred Bishop. No, not a word. Don’t know that anyone has. Lots of fellows leave Union and don’t keep in touch. Going back South, wasn’t he?”
Dietrich doesn’t answer, instead says, “I’m thinking of going to India. I’ve already written to Gandhi.”
“Really? Why?”
“To learn about his movement. Perhaps it can be applied to the situation in Germany.”
Niebuhr squints at him. “You’ve got to be kidding! What do you expect Hitler would do, faced with a Gandhi?”
“Of course it would be dangerous,” Dietrich says. “Especially at first. But as the movement gathered force and the German people were confronted with the sacrifices of the opponents of the regime—”
“Bullshit. You’ve already got opponents of the regime rotting in detention camps, Bonhoeffer. Dying too. Do the German people give a damn about their sacrifices?”
“But if a moral force were the obvious impetus—”
“Moral force my ass. Are those poor souls rotting in Dachau because they’re immoral? Of course, they’re only left-wingers and Jews. You didn’t answer my first question. Dietrich, Dietrich,” Niebuhr rubs his scalp in the old familiar gesture, “you wouldn’t last a week as a German Gandhi.”
Dietrich stares straight ahead, says, “Of course I don’t see myself as a Gandhi. I am not so arrogant as to imagine that,” and makes awkward small talk before escaping from Niebuhr.
He encounters Jean Lasserre soon after in a hallway, hugs the Frenchman and receives a kiss on both cheeks.
“Jean! What are you doing here?”
“I’m on the panel for Ministry to the Working Class,” Lasserre says. “And you?”
“I’m representing the church in Germany, the Confessing Church,” Dietrich says. “You’ll be proud of me. I’ve become a pacifist. And I’m writing a book about the Sermon on the Mount.”
Lasserre beams. “Très bon! Stand back and let me look at you. Thinner than you were in New York.”
“I’ve been away from my mother’s table too long,” Dietrich says. “I’m living in London at the moment.”
“I know, I know. I have heard this from a mutual friend.”
“Elisabeth Hildebrandt,” Dietrich says. His smile vanishes. “How is she?”
“Well, as far as I know. Actually, she’s no longer in Bruay. She’s gone on to Wales. We’re setting up a new branch of our mission for miners in the Rhondda Valley, and she’s gone to help out. Then she plans to travel. She’s working on a collection of drawings from coal mining regions. She’s been to the Ruhr, the Saar, and France and Belgium. Now it’s Wales and the north of England. I believe she’d like to go to America eventually, but it may not be possible.”
“Why not?” Dietrich asks, pretending only mild interest.
“Her father’s situation is precarious. You know he lost his position at the Charit
é?”
Dietrich shakes his head. Karl Bonhoeffer has failed to mention this in his letters.
“He’s trying to leave Germany. It’s the only way he can continue as a practicing physician. Also there’s the fear of violence against the Jews.”
“Yes,” Dietrich says, thinking of Sabine and Gerhard.
“So Elisabeth’s making inquiries for him as she travels about. Nothing so far, according to her last letter. It isn’t easy when there’s a shortage of medical vacancies and you only speak German.”
“I might be able to help. I’ve become friends with the Bishop of Chichester. He’s a very influential man in England.” Dietrich scribbles his address inside a matchbook. “Here. Have Elisabeth write to me at this address. And give her my regards.”
Lasserre nods. “I shall. She speaks quite highly of you.”
“She does?”
“Of course. Don’t look so surprised.”
Dietrich knows he is blushing. He is relieved to see George Bell waving to them from the doorway.
“Come on,” Bell calls, “I want you to meet the Japanese delegation.”
The delegates from around the world meet and debate, break into committees for more meetings, listen to panels, meet, debate, meet, debate. At last they pass resolutions, among them the offering of the delegate from the German Confessing Church:
Resolved. That the church must proclaim the Word of God. To do so, the church must remain independent of purely nationalistic aims. In particular, the church may under no circumstances lend its spiritual support to a war. In the face of the increasing claims of the state, the church must abandon its passive attitude and proclaim the will of God come what may. This conference urges the churches to refuse to recognize as Christian any church which denies its own universality and which sees itself as an instrument for furthering the policies of the state.
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