And now?
And now he was becoming a theologian of ambiguities. He worked on his Ethics at a desk in the library of the Benedictine monastery of Ettal, deep in the German Alps. The words he seemed to discover on the pages of his manuscript evoked a furtive sense of shame even as he was compelled to keep writing them.
Being evil is worse than doing evil. Better for a lover of Truth to lie than for a liar to tell the truth.
Which is worse? To stay clear of political conflict for fear of compromising the church, or to become involved out of love of neighbor and sin greatly in the process?
To escape sin may be the ultimate guilt.
A far cry from his earlier writings, he sometimes thought. Then he had been an arrogant young fool enamored of his own goodness and more interested in personal perfection than living for others. Whatever he had now become, he was no longer proud of his own virtue.
He had been dispatched to Ettal by the Abwehr because it was isolated, and near to Switzerland and Italy if it was judged necessary to send him there. But no call to travel was received, and fretful months passed in a remote landscape. It was a fairy-tale place. The baroque fantasy of Kloster Ettal with its bluecopper domes and turrets, creamy marble walls dashed with ocher, roofs of red tile. Entering the monastery church was like stepping into a world made of Meissen porcelain. A pulpit of beaten gold, surrounded by fantastic creatures, hung suspended from one wall, and all around was more gold, more statuary, cherubs, saints, demons, creatures half-human half-animal. Frescoes of sacred scenes were set at intervals around the walls. Inside the dome, an observatory for probing the celestial world, a landscape of heaven swarmed with angels.
Sometimes Dietrich went to confession, in part because he had a morbid fascination for the confessional box itself. Above the door a stone angel clutched a cross and played with a golden skull like a child handling a ball. Beside the screen a frescoed skeleton posed with legs crossed at ankles, left arm extended to proffer a skull that rested on its bony palm, right hand on hip. The skeleton wore a robe which opened seductively. A coquette.
Dietrich said to the abbot of Ettal, Father Johannes, “Protestants do not treat death so lightly. No leering skeletons for Protestants, only fear of the gaping jaws of Hell.”
“Yes,” said Father Johannes. “You Protestants set yourself such a hard task, trying to do everything for God. No wonder you’re frightened, and worn out. Catholics believe God has already completed the hardest work. So we can sneak up behind the Devil and pull his tail.”
The Ammergau Alpen—Laberberg, Laberjoch, Mühlberg, Notkarspitze, Ziegelspitz—loomed above the monastery walls. Beyond ragged spits of rock and ice, the Swiss border beckoned.
In November an unusual warm spell gave way to a freakish thunderstorm. Dietrich went out, climbed the meadow above the monastery, daring lightning to strike in winter. He scattered a herd of goats who fled in alarm to their leader, a sturdy brown billy. The billy warned the intruder away with a belligerent stance and a series of bleats, but the man scarcely noticed and trudged on up the steep slope until he had a view of the valley. The Ammergau, lit by flashes of lightning, were like great hag’s teeth.
That night in his room he wrote, Today there are once more saints and villains. Instead of the uniform grayness of the rainy day, we have the black storm cloud and brilliant lightning flash. Outlines stand out with exaggerated sharpness. Shakespeare’s characters walk among us. The villain and the saint emerge from primeval depths and by their appearance they tear open the infernal or the divine abyss from which they come and enable us to see for a moment into mysteries of which we had never dreamed.
He slept and was visited by demons.
CHRISTMAS EVE 1940. A season when people gather to eat and drink well, and make music. Not unusual for Catholic leaders from across Germany to gather at Kloster Ettal in the Ammergau. Not unusual—especially since Italy was a revered ally of the Reich—that they would be joined by colleagues and diplomats from Rome. Or that a few Protestant friends would be invited. Of all places, one would want to spend Christmas in Ettal. A quiet, remote valley deep in the mountains. A tiny village, its inhabitants dependents of the monastery. Like the old man who tends the goats and his wife who works in the monastery laundry. A village with quaint cottages lit by lantern, the sort of place to illustrate a child’s Christmas story. The monks of Ettal are famous for their beer and liqueur, distilled inside the walls, and fresh meat and cheese and eggs are also provided by the admirably industrious brothers and their dependents. Much of the produce goes now to the war effort, but some of the first fruits stay close to home. A single road in and out, a snow-covered road that must be traveled with care. In Ettal, the war seems very far away. The men in charge of the war seem very very far away.
In the common room of the guesthouse, Dietrich Bonhoeffer is playing the piano, and everyone is singing Christmas carols. O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter…Odufröhliche, o du selige…Esistein Ros’entsprungen… Hans von Dohnanyi stands behind Dietrich and sings, his hands resting on the shoulders of his son and daughter, who have come down with him from Berlin. Everyone sings—the abbot of Kloster Ettal, Father Johannes, along with Abbot Hofmeister of the monastery at Mettin, Fathers Leiber, Schönhöfer, and Zeiger from the Vatican, Schmidhuber from the Portuguese consulate, Bishop Neuhäusler, Dr. Josef Müller, and an assortment of officers from military intelligence, the Abwehr.
At ten the children are put to bed. Platters of black bread and goat cheese are passed around and tiny glasses filled with pastel Ettaler liqueur. Father Johannes offers a blessing, and the good bishop proposes a toast to the monks who provide this bounty.
They will talk all night, sharing military secrets to be sent on to the Pope, hearing of resistance movements in France and Belgium, of plots against Mussolini. And Hans von Dohnanyi says, “It is time to resume our own work here in Germany.”
“It is one thing to resist in France or the Netherlands or Denmark,” Father Dr. Zeiger of the Vatican points out. “There the resisters are heroes. They can count on at the least the silent support of the majority of their countrymen. They have networks to provide food and shelter. But here you face something quite different, my friend. You are no hero, you are a traitor, and the German people are dead set against you.”
“We know all that,” Dohnanyi says, “and yet it must be done.”
“Events have been against us,” Josef Müller adds. “One victory after another. But the British are now holding firm. That changes everything. People begin to see this will be a long war after all. More important, the Wehrmacht begins to see. For a time we lost the generals, but one by one we begin to regain them. Will the Pope help us?”
“The Holy Father assures us,” says Father Dr. Schönhöfer, “that if a coup occurs he will call on all German Catholics to support the new government. He will also act as a mediator between the new government and the British, if that is requested by all parties.”
They drink to that. But much is not being said, and everyone knows it. The details. No one wishes to consider the details. Dohnanyi tries to think how to declare what must be declared. But it is Dietrich—who has not raised a glass to any sort of success—who stands and goes to the door, turns back, and says, “I have never handled a weapon in my life. But I swear before God, I will kill Hitler with my bare hands if necessary.”
He leaves. Dohnanyi looks around. “It is what must be done. You must tell the Pope, it is what must be done. And will be done. If that is not acceptable we go on without Rome.”
At four in the morning the meeting breaks up. Dohnanyi finds Dietrich in his room, looking out the window and smoking a cigarette, a full ashtray beside him.
Dietrich says without looking at him, “When this is over, I shall never be able to be a pastor again. It isn’t possible.” He stubs out the cigarette and lights another. “My God,” he says. “Christmas Day.”
GENEVA. AVENUE DE CHAMPEL. FEBRUARY 27, 1941. A stiff, icy wind blew off
Lac Léman and the man walked straight into it, head bent and gloved hand planted firmly on his hat. A sheet of discarded paper leaped at him, clutched briefly at his leg, and then danced on past.
The Avenue de Champel was empty of shops and galleries. No cafés where people might take refuge from the attacking wind, huddling for warmth over steaming fondue pots and platters of raclette. The Avenue de Champel was a plain block of blank-faced official buildings and large houses converted into the headquarters of a variety of organizations. At that time of day no other passersby were about, no automobiles trundled past, and the man could imagine himself the only living creature in the world. He stopped outside Number 25, studied a slip of paper clutched in one gloved hand to check the address, then noticed the bronze plaque which read WORLD COUNCIL OF CHURCHES. He struggled with the heavy door, then slipped gratefully inside, where he stood, bundled in coat and scarf, before the receptionist, a small thin woman of about sixty.
For a moment he could not speak, then the warmth of the room began to send prickles through the muscles of his face and he said as though waking from sleep, “I have an appointment with General Secretary Visser’t Hooft. My name is Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”
Willem Visser’t Hooft was a trim man in a pinstripe suit, with a hairline that receded in a V of perfect proportions. He stood and shook Dietrich’s hand, offered a cup of coffee, which was accepted with gratitude, then sat and studied his guest, making no attempt to hide the wariness in his face.
“So,” said the General Secretary, “you have survived the bise, I see.”
“The bise?”
“Our lake wind. The Genevois proclaim it the worst in Europe and are very proud of it.”
“I won’t dispute them,” Dietrich said.
“An unfortunate season for a holiday,” Visser’t Hooft continued. His voice held a sharp, challenging edge that caused Dietrich to shift uncomfortably in his chair. “You would enjoy the city more in spring or summer. Then there are pleasure boats on the lake, and people sit on the terraces in the afternoon. On a clear day one can see Mont Blanc. A peaceful contrast to the rest of the continent.”
Dietrich took a deep breath and said, “Perhaps you don’t recall, but we met at the ecumenical conference in Denmark in 1934, when you were assistant secretary. You were most sympathetic to the cause of the Confessing Church.”
“And you were an effective advocate,” Visser’t Hooft said with a nod. “But that was years ago.”
“George Bell always thought very highly of you.”
“And I think highly of George,” replied Visser’t Hooft. “That is why I wrote him as soon as I received word of your coming.”
“Ah. A check of my credentials?”
“Of course.”
“And have you received a reply?”
“Not yet. The mails between Switzerland and Great Britain are not so reliable these days, as you well know.” This said with a discreet, but angry, cough. Then, “I must tell you, Bonhoeffer, no one in this organization thinks I should have anything to do with you.”
Dietrich bowed his head. “I’m sorry. That would be unwise.”
“Would it? Their reservations are legitimate, it seems to me. They wonder why you are allowed to travel freely from Germany to a foreign country. They wonder how you got into Switzerland, since it is nearly impossible to come by a visa these days without some very powerful friends. In fact, we all wonder about your relationship to your government.”
Dietrich bit his lip, considered how much he should give away. Visser’t Hooft waited, fingertips touching.
“I’m working for German military intelligence,” Dietrich said, and held his breath.
“The Abwehr,” said Visser’t Hooft.
“Yes.”
“And why should I not show you the door here and now?”
Dietrich said, “Because I have come to tell you that we are planning to overthrow Hitler.”
Visser’t Hooft raised his eyebrows but said nothing for a very long time. Dietrich looked away. Out the window a thin ridge of snow-capped peaks was visible above the gray sky.
Visser’t Hooft stood suddenly. “Go away,” he said. “Now. But don’t leave the city. Leave your address with my secretary. I shall be in touch.”
Dietrich stood as well, so startled he knocked over his cup of coffee.
“Never mind.” Visser’t Hooft waved his hand at the brown stain spreading across his blotter. “Just go.”
Dietrich ate steak and pommes frites in his hotel room and contemplated his failure. It seemed that Hans Bernd Gisevius had been right.
“Gisevius is the German consul in Zurich,” Hans von Dohnanyi had explained when he briefed Dietrich on his Swiss mission. “He’s also the most important member of the resistance in Switzerland, and he’s got access to the British embassy. Though so far it hasn’t done us much good, because they don’t trust him. They still can’t seem to conceive of high-ranking Germans who would betray their country. Can’t blame them—at this point, we’ve damn little to show for ourselves. Anyway, I have to warn you Gisevius doesn’t want us using you in Switzerland. He considers the country his bailiwick and thinks you’re a rank amateur.”
“Which I am,” Dietrich pointed out.
“Aren’t we all? Not something we’re taught in school, is it? Anyway, just wanted you to know who Gisevius is. He’ll stay out of your way, since we convinced him it can’t hurt to establish a channel of communication with the churches in the West. And in that sphere no one has the credentials you do. So you see, you’re going to prove useful after all.”
“But won’t I need some sort of training? Don’t people involved in espionage need to learn how to set up secret meeting places or tell if they’re being followed?”
Dohnanyi laughed. “You’ve seen too many films. No, you don’t have to go skulking around Switzerland. No need to pretend to be anything other than you are.”
“And that is?”
Dohnanyi’s smile vanished. “You are a patriotic German pastor in the service of the Abwehr who is attempting to influence the World Council of Churches to support the German war effort, or at least to remain neutral. That’s what you must never forget. It isn’t the other side we must fool, it is our own people. As far as anyone must know, even most people you meet abroad, you are a loyal subject of the Fatherland. Pick and choose carefully whom you attempt to convince otherwise.”
Now his first attempt to “open lines of communication,” as Dohnanyi put it, had ended in failure. His memories of Visser’t Hooft at the Fano conference had led him to believe the Dutchman would be his most receptive target. Apparently not. Dietrich held on to some hope, thanks to the request to remain in Geneva. He was staying at the Beau-Rivage, the finest hotel in the city, as befitted a representative of the German government. Despite attacks of remorse that he should be so comfortable, it was a pleasant sojourn. The weather relented, and Dietrich enjoyed strolling along the lakeshore. Days turned into weeks. He browsed bookstores, visited art museums and ancient churches in the Old Town, and ate in restaurants well fortified with foodstuffs that were growing scarce in Germany. In Geneva people went about their normal lives, and Dietrich became one of them. Only the bustle of relief activities coordinated by the International Red Cross gave any indication of the scope of suffering and dying only miles away.
One evening in mid-March, when he had taken refuge from a rainy night in his room with a bottle of kirsch and a German translation of Don Quixote, the telephone jangled.
“Bonhoeffer,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Visser’t Hooft here,” replied the voice on the line. “Can you see me tomorrow at eight o’clock? We can have breakfast in my office.”
“Of course,” Dietrich said eagerly.
“I’ve heard from our friend,” Visser’t Hooft said. “I’d like to discuss it.” Then he hung up.
Dietrich hurried along the Quai du Mont-Blanc once again facing into a lake wind, this one warmer than the last. Gray
ice floes drifted past. In the Avenue de Champel a few hardy robins plied patches of thawing ground, so hungry they ignored the passing man. Once again Dietrich met the gray-haired receptionist, who was far more friendly this time. He was shown into the empty office of Willem Visser’t Hooft and told the general secretary would be with him shortly. Dietrich tried to fight his nervousness by looking around the room. It was a nondescript office. A bulletin board held family snapshots and postcards of religious artwork. On the desk a cigarette box incongruously topped by an American buffalo provided the only decoration.
Visser’t Hooft entered, this time himself carrying a tray with coffeepot and cups and a plate of croissants and slices of Gruyère. The two men shook hands, shyly but with some warmth. Dietrich settled back in his chair and began to relax.
“You may have guessed,” said Visser’t Hooft as he sat, “I’ve received a letter from Bishop Bell. A long letter which you will be able to read for yourself in a moment.” He held up the envelope and Dietrich glimpsed the familiar emblem of the Diocese of Chichester on the stationery. “George says that you are to be trusted completely, despite any doubtful appearances.”
Dietrich nodded. “Thank you, and George.”
“I must tell you,” Visser’t Hooft continued, “my most trusted advisers are still urging caution. They’re extremely skeptical that elements of the German armed forces might be disloyal, and that you would take the risk of sharing secrets with outsiders. But I have decided to trust George. First, however, you will want to know the good bishop sends greetings from your sister Sabine, who he assures you is well, as are her husband and daughters.”
This sudden good news after so long a silence brought Dietrich near to tears. When he had composed himself he said, “I am so grateful. And I understand your caution. No German can expect to be trusted after what we have done. The suffering of your own country of Holland under German occupation must be very painful to you.”
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