Reinhold Niebuhr of the American delegation opposes the sentence on war as an oversimplification which ignores the possibility of future wars which may be just and necessary. Bishop George Bell of England defends the sentence on war, noting that while he is himself not a pacifist, he believes violence is always evil in some degree, and it is the burden of those committing violent acts to justify them. Thus, Bell says, while Christians may find themselves at some point engaged in acts of violence, including warfare, it is never the purpose of the church to bless the organized and premeditated violence that is war.
On Sunday, Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer is invited to deliver the sermon. This is understood to be a rebuke to the Reich Church delegation, which chooses not to attend (except for the very well dressed SS man, who sits in the fourth row).
Pastor Bonhoeffer speaks so forcefully that many of the delegates are drawn to the edge of their seat.
How does peace come about? Through a system of political treaties? Through the investment of international capital in different countries? Through the big banks, through money? Or through universal peaceful rearmament in order to guarantee peace? Through none of these, for the sole reason that in all of them peace is confused with safety. There is no way to peace along the way of safety. For peace must be dared. It is the great venture. It can never be safe. Peace is the opposite of security….
Niebuhr shakes Dietrich’s hand afterward. “Powerful sermon,” he says and adds with a wry smile, “but I can’t help wondering, what if everyone wants peace except Hitler?”
“That is the risk we bear as peacemakers,” Dietrich says. “I am a Christian and a German. Hitler is my cross to bear.”
“Yes, well.” Niebuhr sighs. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t become mine too.”
The Nazi Party newspaper Völkischer Beobachter carries stories of the Fano conference, and editorializes, The World Council of Churches is a liberalistic body devoted to forcing the one-world ideology of the League of Nations down the throat of freedom-loving nations such as Germany. The German people defy this meddling in the affairs of the Fatherland. Germans know what is best for Germany, and true Christians in Germany are thankful for God’s gift of the Nation.
Late night. Dietrich goes to his room hot and weary, for a parched breeze is blowing off the sandy beach and he has spent the evening talking to delegates, answering questions, cajoling, persuading, encouraging. Sucked dry to the marrow. He shuts his door, leans against it, and realizes he is not alone.
“A good speech,” says the SS man. “Very impressive.” He is sitting at the table near the window with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He replenishes his own glass, offers the other to Dietrich, who doesn’t move.
“Not a speech,” Dietrich says. “A sermon.”
“Ah. Whatever. Very fine. I especially liked the line Peace is the opposite of security. I’ve always felt that way myself. If I heard more of that sort of thing from the clergy, I might start attending church myself.”
He offers the glass again, waves it enticingly. “It’s not drugged. That sort of thing only happens in the cinema.”
Dietrich sits and accepts. “What do you want?”
“I want to tell you what I know. I’ve the transcript of your telephone conversation with Pastor Niemöller. Bit of luck we caught it. We aren’t that organized. Yet.” His voice is almost apologetic.
Dietrich says, “What is your name?”
The man looks surprised, considers the question, decides there’s no harm in answering. “Alois Bauer. SS-Hauptsturmführer Alois Bauer.”
It is Dietrich’s turn to hesitate.
“What?” says Bauer.
“I believe I know that name.”
“You believe?”
“You were injured once, in a raid on a youth club in Charlottenburg. Hit on the head. Am I right?”
Bauer’s eyes narrow. “What do you know about this?”
“I came to your aid. The two young men with you were frightened. They happened to mention your name. I examined you, assured them you weren’t seriously hurt, and helped them call an ambulance.”
Bauer rubs his chin, stares at Dietrich. “The young men told me. I don’t recall the name Bonhoeffer.”
“Of course I didn’t use my real name. When dealing with the SS—” Dietrich shrugs.
Bauer seems pleased at this admission of fear. “Of course. And it seems I am in your debt.”
“It was the Christian thing to do.”
Bauer laughs. He replenishes their glasses.
“I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he says. “I have in my pocket a paper to be signed by you that states you promise to cease your work with the ecumenical movement. But what I have seen of you these last few days, I realize you will not sign. A compliment, by the way, Pastor Bonhoeffer.”
“Taken as a compliment.” A most fearsome compliment, Dietrich thinks, for now he must live up to it.
“And as I owe you a favor, I shall not waste your time with such nonsense. Instead I shall tell you this.” Bauer leans forward as though they were conspirators. “Stay in England, or go back to Germany. Either way, all will be well for you, as long as you limit yourself to these church matters. The church is no threat. The SS knows this, Hitler knows this. A lot of talk, even defiant talk, but nothing more. Stick with the church, Pastor Bonhoeffer, even the Confessing Church, and you’ll live a long life.”
He stands, pats Dietrich on the shoulder, and leaves, taking the bottle of brandy with him.
FOUR DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Dietrich returned home from a visit to an elderly parishioner in a Whitechapel High Street boardinghouse. He had taken his midday meal alone at the restaurant Czardas, which specialized in the cuisine of Mitteleuropa, had lingered over the roast duck and dumplings and stewed prunes. Regent and Oxford streets had been a fantasia of Christmas lights. But in Whitechapel High Street, mounds of sharded green glass decorated the streetgutters and tatty bits of tinsel drape fluttered from telephone poles and streetlamps. He took the train to Forest Hill, tramping up the London Road from the station with his coat collar turned up against a brisk wind. Outside the house he grabbed a gunnysack, stuffed it full of coal with a wedge of shovel, and huffed up the stairs to the first floor, stamping his feet. A woman sat at the top of the landing, leaning against the door and hugging herself against the cold.
It was Elisabeth Hildebrandt.
“You should have let yourself in.” He handed her a steaming mug of coffee. “I never lock the door.”
“I supposed you would get enough of a start as it was without me rising from your couch like the ghost of Christmas past.”
He smiled. “I could never take you for a ghost.”
She wore her hair longer, thin black feathers draped across her shoulders and held back from her forehead with a brown plastic clip. The long hair gave her a slump-shouldered appearance, as though she were weary, but her face had the same quick intelligence he remembered. She sat on the edge of his couch and sipped the coffee, then looked around at the room, bare save for the piano and a shelf of books, and chilly despite the coal fire.
“Dietrich, what is this? Some sort of mortification of the flesh?”
“Perhaps it is.”
“And how long does your penance last?”
“God knows. I may be going to India soon. I’m awaiting a letter from Gandhi.”
Her face clouded. “India. More penance, or something else?”
He didn’t answer, instead asked, “Where are you staying?”
“I was at the YWCA last night. I’ve been traveling quite a bit and I’m afraid I’m low on funds.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about penance,” he said. “You must stay here. You can have my room and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“My art supplies and drawings are at the Y, and my clothes.”
“We’ll go get them.”
“I’d like to stay here,” she said shyly. “It’s not a good time of year to be alone.”
; “No,” he agreed. “For either of us. Now, tell me about your father.”
“He’s no longer in Germany. I know Jean told you he’d lost his position. It seems Jews are no longer allowed to continue as doctors or lawyers or teachers.”
“It’s appalling,” Dietrich said. “And yet no great outcry?”
“Outcry? I believe most Germans are quite pleased. More positions for them, after all. Besides what does an outcry get you? Some months in Dachau.”
“Where is your father now?”
“Amsterdam. His sister and her husband are there. It’s only a temporary solution. He’s no money coming in. But I’ve had a letter from your Bishop Bell. There’s an opening at a hospital in Southampton, and Father’s German might actually come in handy, because they’re treating quite a lot of refugees these days.”
“Yes,” Dietrich said. “They’ve even built camps to hold them. I often receive letters of inquiry, people stuck in a camp and hoping someone in my congregation can provide a job, or connections of some kind. It’s very difficult.”
“It’s just the beginning.”
She took out a cigarette and he leaned forward to light it, then one for himself. They smoked for a time, watched each other warily.
“What are your churches like?”
“Very small,” he said. “Fifty parishioners here, thirty in Whitechapel. The organist at St. Paul’s only knows three hymns, and plays them over and over, week after week. It’s always a relief when she misses a service because then I can play the organ myself and we have something different.”
She laughed, then said, “You can’t mean to stay here much longer?”
“No,” he agreed.
“God,” she said. “India.”
Dietrich took her to the YWCA to collect her belongings. Then they bought a Christmas tree, placed a belated Advent wreath on the mantel, and lit all the candles at once. Elisabeth baked a loaf of stollen and a gingerbread house while Dietrich was out on his pastoral rounds. On Christmas Eve she sat in the congregation of St. Paul’s Goalston Street and heard the three hymns, none of them appropriate to the season, and smiled behind her hand as Dietrich stubbornly led the congregation through an a capella rendering of “Stille Nacht.” His voice, loud and fine, carried throughout the church and he was soon several notes ahead of the dawdling congregation.
Afterward they walked through the black night to the Aldgate tube station. At the bottom of the stairs Elisabeth stepped sideways to avoid a broken bottle and bumped into Dietrich. He took her arm to steady her, and didn’t let go.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“And I’ve missed you.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then led her along the platform with his arm around her shoulder. Back at Manor Mount he lit the coal fire and they snuggled close to the stove until the room grew warm. They drank hot wine spiced with cloves and cinnamon while decking the tree with gingerbread cookies and white candles and strips of tinfoil, pausing to play carols on the Bechstein, and four-handed Bach, and sometimes—arms around waists—two-handed Bach.
They exchanged gifts, the collected works of Shakespeare for Dietrich, a silver necklace with a single pearl for Elisabeth.
At midnight they held hands and went into the bedroom. Nor did Dietrich sleep on the sofa thereafter.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, all seasonal duties done, they went together to Chichester. By this time the way was familiar to Dietrich. He had been meeting George Bell on a regular basis, either in London or at the bishop’s palace, to talk about Germany, about the ecumenical movement, or simply to enjoy each other’s company. This trip was different, and not just because he delighted to share it with Elisabeth. In his vest pocket he carried two letters. One was from Gandhi, inviting him to the Mahatma’s ashram. The other was from Martin Niemöller.
…You should have seen the crowd. The arena holds twenty-thousand and there were people standing at the back, sharing seats. We’d have let more in but didn’t want to give the Gestapo an excuse to shut us down for breaking fire codes. I managed to see some foreign press reports thanks to an American journalist, William Shirer, who has been most helpful. It seems the Confessing Church has just held the first major anti-Nazi protest since the new regime took over.
In the library of the palace, George Bell looked up from reading Niemöller’s letter. Dietrich sat across from him, on the sofa beside Elisabeth.
“Your faces,” he said. “You should see your faces. I have never seen such longing. You would have loved to be there.”
He continued reading.
It was a prohibited meeting yet they did not shut us down, even though Paul Schneider and I were most pointed in our criticisms of the regime. Many people did report seeing Gestapo agents in the crowd, ostentatiously taking notes. As though the note-taking was their only weapon. I believe they were afraid to do anything more. Afraid of what? Public opinion? The German public has in general seemed reluctant to express any opinion, one way or the other. Even most of the people in the pews, we are finding, are waiting to see which way the wind blows before committing themselves to either state church or Confessing Church. Everyone wants to keep his nose clean.
Some of our pastors have been arrested, over a hundred at last count. They’re usually held in jail a few weeks, then released. Nothing more serious than that. Yet. We continue to work and wait.
Yours in Christ, Martin
P.S. Let me say once again, I hope you are sufficiently convinced of our commitment to accept the offer we have made. We need your stubbornness in Germany.
“Well,” Bell said, folding the letter and handing it to Dietrich.
“The offer,” said Dietrich, “is not exactly a call to the front lines. They want me to head a new seminary training pastors for the Confessing Church. It will be a quiet place in the woods of Pomerania, away from the public eye.”
“India would be far more daring and romantic,” Elisabeth said. “I’m sure the Gestapo have Pomerania on their maps, if you’re wanting so badly to be arrested. And if it’s publicity you’re worried about, well, Pastor Niemöller has a friend in the American press. Who knows, he may be as famous as Gandhi some day.”
Dietrich twisted around to face her. “That is most unfair! And coming from you when—” He stopped and glanced at Bell, who was looking a bit embarrassed, as though he had been caught eavesdropping. Dietrich blushed.
What Dietrich did not know was that Elisabeth carried a letter of her own, which she had held for three days while she tried to decide how to share its contents. She felt herself to be standing upon a cliff overlooking a cold blue lake. Now she took a deep breath and stepped off the ledge. “I have to tell you something, Dietrich. Something very important but very difficult.”
Bell stood. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone.”
“No,” Elisabeth said quickly. “I want you to hear. I know how important you are to Dietrich, and I am in your debt as well for helping my father. He’s had word of his appointment to the hospital in Southampton, and he’s most grateful, as am I. Dietrich has assumed, I know, that this means I shall be remaining in England. But that is not the case.” She turned to Dietrich. “I’ve an offer of my own, as a result of my own inquiries, to work with an organization that is helping Jews to leave Germany. It’s being run by Jews out of the Scheunenviertel. Not yet underground—” she raised her hand as though to stay his objections—“and not so morally pure either. The Nazis are cooperating. They want rid of us. I’ll be dancing with the devil, it seems. But people are desperate to leave Germany. So I’m going back to Berlin to help them.”
“When people are trying to leave,” Dietrich said, “you are going back?”
“Yes. Why not? You’re thinking of the same thing.”
“It’s different with me. I’m not Jewish. And I’m not a woman. You can’t go back. I would be so worried about you.”
“Then you will have to worry. As I shall worry about you. Don’t think you wi
ll change my mind. I have decided, as you will decide. Neither of us can escape that, can we?” She stood. “And now I shall go for a walk in the close. I want the two of you to talk and then, Dietrich, I want you to come to me, out there.” She put her hand on his shoulder, the lightest of touches, and left.
Dietrich said to Bell, “Did you know about this?”
“Heavens no! I’m as stunned as you are. Well, I admit to being stunned by everything, including Elisabeth. When you asked me to help her father, I’d no idea she was so close to you.”
“I hadn’t said much before this because Elisabeth and I parted on bad terms and I didn’t expect to see her again. Then she appeared on my doorstep just before Christmas. One thing led to another—” He blushed again.
“You needn’t apologize, my boy. The love between a man and a woman is a beautiful gift. Indeed a sacred gift. I often wonder what I’d do without my Hettie.”
“It isn’t so simple for us. The circumstances—My God, even if we both go back to Germany, who knows how much time we could spend together. I know Elisabeth. If her heart is set on this work in Berlin, then that is that. But the uncertainty! How could a marriage survive under such conditions?”
Bell shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Better if I go to India as I planned.”
“I would be happy for you to go to India.”
“Really? I was expecting you to talk me out of it. Faithfulness and discipleship and all that.”
“Is that what returning to Germany would mean?” Bell leaned forward. “Would it mean being faithful to the call of God?”
Dietrich shut his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
“Then you should listen to what you just said. And listen very carefully to what I said. I would be happy if you went to India. Because I would be happy to see you clear of that mess in Germany. For purely selfish reasons. I love you, Dietrich. Hettie and I have no children, you know, and I’ve come to think of you as the son I never had. Not easy to admit without sounding a sentimental old fool, but true. And suppose I say to you, By all means, Dietrich, you must return to Germany, that is the way of a true follower of Jesus Christ. And then suppose something happens to you. How could I forgive myself?”
Saints and Villains Page 26
