47

CURATE BAUER knelt for morning prayers beside his bed. He prayed that God would blind the eyes of the Gestapo and —God forgive him —Father Oberlanger to his Munich activities with Jews and political dissidents, and to his trading for food on the black market to feed them.

He prayed God’s protection on Mayor Schulz and the couple the mayor had recently illegally wed, Jewish Zebulon Goldmann and Aryan Gretel Schweibe.

He prayed for Administrator Raab and the two junior monks who’d recently begun a weekly religious discussion group for boys in Raab’s home, under the guise of a Hitler Youth program, ostensibly learning and developing signal skills.

He begged God to help Friederich Hartman accept the forgiveness offered him. Such atrocities as he’d known in the Polish campaign could break any man. The heart of the gentle woodcarver was not made for such evil.

He prayed that Jason Young would find a way to tell the world Friederich’s story. He thanked the Holy Father for the spirited young American, for his steadfast heart and crusader nature. He could not ask for a more determined partner in resistance or a more passionate brother in Christ. His ability to move freely within the country, to collect forged papers and passports, was indispensable in helping Jews to safety.

And Lea Hartman and her sister . . . The curate laughed in the midst of his prayer. He’d not known whether to believe Frau Breisner when she’d finally confessed to him there were two. All three of them were good enough for the stage! But it had explained so much —why Frau Hartman had suggested performing the Passion in an odd year, how she’d bloomed with newfound confidence and boundless energy and talents, why she could be shy and demure one day and nearly flirtatious another.

He shook his head. Herr Hartman must grow dizzy with two such beautiful women beneath his roof. If he didn’t miss his guess, Herr Young would happily relieve him of one of the twins. Please, Lord, let them go on fooling us all.

He’d passed Jason’s copy of Nachfolge to Rachel. Herr Young had such hopes for the Fräulein’s heart. But Curate Bauer wondered. She’d been reared in the haughty spirit of eugenics. Faith in the One who so loved all the world that He’d offered Himself as a ransom for sin was a humbling journey. Heal and mold her heart, Holy Father.

Such a vast network to keep straight and so many lives at stake —Curate Bauer spent more time than ever on his knees.

And he spent so much time trying to avoid Father Oberlanger that he was greatly surprised when later that morning the priest stopped him in the square and quietly affirmed the Marian instructional sessions and Bible studies for older girls, as long as they could safely be slipped beneath the noses of the Gestapo.

“Even those parents who are members of the Nazi Party are not eager to give up our Catholic traditions or the training of their children, Curate. That’s not the way of the people of the Passion.” Father Oberlanger leaned close and tapped the curate on the shoulder, as if confiding something more.

Curate Bauer wished that the village parents’ staunch spirit led to helping those who truly had no voice in this Nazi regime. But he dared not say that aloud. He wasn’t certain where the old priest stood; he met so frequently with the Nazi officials lording over the village.

It wasn’t that Jews were eager to hide in Oberammergau. Dramatized and distorted scenes of the Passion Play and the vicious responses of some theatregoers made the village a potential hotbed for anti-Semitism, easily compatible with Nazi propaganda. It had become a place for Hebrews, whether Christian or not, to avoid. But a few Jews could be safely slipped among the refugees flocking to the village, especially if the map of their heritage was not written on their faces.

Curate Bauer sighed later as he polished the crucifix in the church. More resisters could be such a help —especially if they were willing to supply food or hiding places within their homes or shops.

Father Oberlanger stopped in the church, clearly preoccupied. “I’m meeting later today with our Nazi official, seeing if I might convince him to keep his hands off our festival and Corpus Christi procession.” He was halfway down the aisle when he appeared to just think of something. “If you happen to be away today, Curate, it won’t matter. I’ll be meeting with the Hauptsturmführer.”

Curate Bauer felt again that the priest was urging him forward, though he couldn’t be certain.

Jason loosened his tie and raked his hair into place, pulling his typewriter closer. He had stories to get out —Friederich’s stories, related through Curate Bauer, of Nazi atrocities in Poland that should rock the world.

He prayed they would incite governments sitting on the sidelines to band together and crush Hitler before he obliterated the Jews and Poles and everyone else in his mad path to world domination.

It was not a story the chief would print or sell, but Jason had other avenues. As soon as he phoned New York through his private source —he’d never get typewritten copy past the censors —he’d contact Dietrich Bonhoeffer with the number Frau Bergstrom had given him. Dietrich would want to know all that Friederich had told the curate, if he didn’t know already.

The fact that the Nazis were driving Poles from their homes so Germans could resettle there, taking over their houses and possessions, was new information. More “living space.” Meanwhile, Poles were sent to concentration camps or simply massacred.

Learning that a friend had participated in herding Polish Jews into a synagogue and watching as they burned alive had been the last straw for Friederich. He’d placed himself in the line of fire, knowing he could not carry out another sadistic order and face his God.

Jason knew that by the time distorted Polish war propaganda reached the German people, it would in no way resemble the truth. The Volk, no doubt, would go along, apathetic, or nod their heads, turning a blind eye. “After all,” he’d heard a thousand times, “Herr Hitler is rebuilding Germany. As he told us from the beginning, there will be sacrifices required.”

Jason grunted. As long as the sacrifices required belong to others.

Despite the Party line, no one could pretend they’d not seen the inhumane treatment of Jews on the streets of Germany each day —the complete stripping of Jewish rights and citizenship, the expulsion of Hebrew Christians from churches, expulsion from civil service, schools, universities, symphonies, and newspaper ownership. Marriage to Gentiles was forbidden. Confiscation of goods and property was the norm, as was denial of medical and dental treatment, stricter and more severe rationing of food and clothing —of everything —than for Gentiles. And then there was the “relocation” and constant intimidation, the threat of concentration camps, rape, and torture by the Gestapo and SS.

He could only hope that America and Britain would listen and respond with greater force. What worried him most was something Dietrich had mentioned observing during his visit to America —the way Americans treated Negroes. Not so different in some ways than German citizens treated Jews at the beginning. If Americans treat our citizens in such a way, will they step up to the plate to protect their own or the world’s Jews? He wasn’t sure.

“No, no,” Rivka admonished. “Not that way. Try again. Open your palm, hold it against your chest . . . There, that’s it. Now circle.” She stopped. “You’re circling the wrong way, Friederich. Please pay attention.”

Friederich humbly nodded and shifted in his chair, stretching his game leg out the best he could. Amelie tugged on his sleeve and he opened his arms. She climbed onto his lap and looked at him expectantly. He would try the sign again —for her. It was a good thing Rivka and Amelie were patient and encouraging teachers. He didn’t mind that they found his fumbling efforts amusing. His large fingers didn’t seem to bend and curve so flexibly as those of the women —even Oma’s, no matter that his were stronger from years of woodcarving. And he was still regaining the ability to focus for lengthy periods of time.

Amelie laughed as he made the wrong sign once more, grabbed his hands between her small ones, and did her best to maneuver his fingers into position. Friederich wondered if pretzels felt this way.

“You’ll get it in time, my love.” He felt a soft kiss nuzzled into the back of his neck and smiled. Practicing the signs had added benefits. Lea loved to watch him with Amelie and he knew his efforts pleased her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to please his precious wife.

“What would we do without Amelie to lighten our days?” he sighed.

“I hope we never need learn,” Lea whispered in his ear, sitting beside him, trying the new sign Rivka continued to demonstrate.

Friederich hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud. He did that a great deal lately —spoke his thoughts without meaning to. He looked around the room. His comment had sobered each of the women and caused little creases in their brows, as well as Amelie, who’d responded quickly, pulling away, so sensitive to the reactions and nuances of her grown-ups.

Friederich deliberately smiled again, hugging Amelie to his chest, tickling her cheek until she, too, smiled again, laughed again, and pulled his fingers into the shape of the sign. Friederich, much relieved, determined to be more careful in the future. They all needed as much joy, as much hope as their lives could afford. He must do his part in providing that.

Lent had barely begun when the Nazi order came that all crucifixes and Catholic imagery were to be removed from classrooms. Even normal school prayers were banned. Father Oberlanger turned grayer. At first, parents were too stunned to react. But before the week ended, the outraged village parents —mostly mothers left at home, thanks to the war —protested, demanding that the symbols and freedom to pray be returned. How could a village whose entire identity was defined by the Passion Play be expected to give up their hand-carved imagery?

In neighboring Ettal, Curate Bauer saw protesters who threatened to desert Nazi Party organizations and withhold donations to the winter funds designated to assist the poor and needy. Men in the beer hall claimed those funds went straight to Nazi coffers and that threatening their wallet was a sure way to garner attention. Irate wives vowed to write their husbands at the front and tell them of the Nazis’ latest ploy, creating dissension in the military ranks —the Reich’s greatest fear.

In the throes of the battle, Curate Bauer lamented to Rachel one afternoon after the children’s theatre class. “That such a thing could happen in Germany!”

“Nothing in Germany surprises me now, Curate.”

“You are too cynical.”

She shook her head, packing her small prop bag. “Just a realist. I’ve looked at the world through the glasses I was given. Now I’ve taken them off. It’s surprising how distorting the wrong pair of glasses can be.”

He sighed. “I suppose nothing like this could happen in America.”

“Banning prayer from schools? Stripping crucifixes from walls? That would be like taking down the Ten Commandments in the United States. I’ve never been a churchgoer, but I can’t imagine such a thing happening. The churches, even the people who aren’t churchgoers, would never stand for having their rights stripped away like that.”

By the end of the week, Berlin resounded with the tremendous clamor and crucifixes were restored. Curate Bauer watched as Father Oberlanger, proud of his parish for their pro-Catholic stance, applauded the fortitude of the parents at every opportunity.

But Curate Bauer knelt alone in the darkened church before the altar and wept. What if these same parents had risen up and so vigorously protested the Nuremberg Laws stripping Jews of citizenship and rights? What if they had demanded that the elderly, the handicapped, the mentally challenged, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies, Poles, the Jews themselves —so many targeted by Hitler —be spared? What if the church, Catholic and Protestant, had refused allegiance to Hitler and maintained Christ as its true head?

Have mercy, and forgive us, Father. We’ve saved our sacred images, but sacrificed Your image within our souls.