Saving Amelie (28 page)

Jason’s train pulled into Munich late Monday night. He stretched, slapped his fedora atop his head, and hefted his bag. He’d find a room for the night if there was one to be had, track down a meal, then hunt for an appropriate boardinghouse in a few days, once the hoopla from Hitler’s anniversary speech had passed.

He could take the train to Oberammergau tomorrow. It made sense to see how the Passion Play was shaping up for the coming season. He mentally ticked off his list of leads: Despite Hitler’s invasion of Poland, and despite France and England’s declarations of war on Germany, will Oberammergau’s Passion Play, produced every ten years, open on schedule? Considering the toll of war, will the village still run the play the entire season? Will anybody come?

Jason couldn’t imagine enough able-bodied young men left to fill the dozens of prime roles, much less man the hotels and shops, by the time Hitler got done conscripting the village’s populace. He couldn’t imagine how the town could feed stadiums of playgoers on the current rationing. And what about blackouts?

But he had other reasons for visiting Oberammergau and making the acquaintance of its citizenry. He hoped his long list of ideas
for feature stories would afford him repeated trips to the village and interviews with locals for weeks to come. If it didn’t or if his editor didn’t buy it, he’d think of something else.

Working for the foreign press could keep him in the area, but he must be careful. Gestapo in Berlin trailed him and his colleagues like bloodhounds. Munich would be no different.

31

I
T
WAS
HALF
PAST
SIX
and barely light when Curate Bauer hurried along the cobbled street toward the church. He’d spent a long and sleepless night negotiating the private sale of valuables too heavy to travel, converting them to cash and jewels—portable wealth—for a Hebrew Christian family determined to flee from Oberammergau before they were forced out. Now he must return to the church before Maximillion Grieser, one of the Hitler Youth, made his morning patrol. The teen, eager to rise in the estimation of the Nazi Party, took his duties far too seriously. Such eyes and ears, such inflated ego, could be most dangerous.

The curate had thought, upon taking vows for the priesthood, that he’d be leaving backbiting, selfishness, and politics permanently behind—entering a quiet and disciplined life. But those very issues dogged his every step. They plagued his parishioners and those they persecuted through their fear and through apathy. No one was exempt. He tried not to judge his flock, but the conflict knifed his heart day and night, wearing him thin.

At least, as a member of the clergy, he’d not been forced to join the Nazi Party. He pitied the men of Oberammergau who wanted only to ply their trade, to raise their families, and to keep alive the traditions of the Passion Play. It was no longer enough. If they did not join the Party, if they did not march and carouse and goose-step and “Heil Hitler” on command, they were ridiculed, harassed . . . and sometimes worse.

And now the oppressors were driving longtime neighbors from their land—because of ancient blood that flowed or was suspected of flowing in their veins. As if being Jewish prohibited you from being Christian or German or human. As if Christ Himself had not been Jewish.

Curate Bauer cursed, then prayed for forgiveness. He felt helpless in the face of this hypocrisy, this injustice, this madness. Good men and women driven from their homes, sent to concentration camps or relocated to lands Germany occupied, all so Germany could be “Aryanized.” And the rumors were growing that not all camps were for detention or work, no matter that their iron gates bore the assertion
Work Makes Free
. He shuddered at his imaginations.

No moral conscience and no fear of the Almighty! And what do we do—what do
I
do—but sit back and watch?
Curate Bauer trembled in his anger against the impotency of the nation, of the church, of himself.

By the time he’d climbed the steps to the church, he was winded, the fight still churning inside him. He leaned against the door to catch his breath, to forcibly calm his breathing and spirit before entering. He’d beat his head against the door if it would help.

“Curate?” A small voice came from the darkened alcove behind the steps.

Curate Bauer started, descended the steps, and peered into the corner to better see the child—slight; he couldn’t have been more than six or seven. “You’re one of the Levys.” He hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation.

“Y-yes, Curate,” the boy stuttered, pulling back.

“Come. I won’t bite you. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Waiting for you, Curate.” The youngster crept out, looking both ways, fear of discovery written in his features. “We’re leaving today—and we won’t be back,” he whispered.

Curate Bauer’s heart sank. Another family.

“
Mein Vater
said to give you this.” The child pulled a package from beneath the steps—a large rectangular box wrapped in a woolen scarf. “He said you’d know what to do with it. He said to tell you it’s special—made from olive wood from the hills outside Jerusalem. Grandfather sent it to him last year, a Hanukkah gift.”

Curate Bauer remembered the day Jacob Levy had received the paint box, and word of his father’s cruel death—an announcement not shared with his children. Carefully, he unwrapped the package. The box, smooth and beautifully marked in runs of dark and light and golden brown, was more than a box to hold a fabulous array of paints and thinners and brushes and rags. It was a painting in itself.

“But there’s no time left to use it, and Father said he’s just learning to paint. He said you’d know who needs it most—that it should be used for a sacred purpose.” The child waited, but Curate Bauer only ran his hands over the beautiful surface. “We’ll be in Jerusalem next year, and Father says we can find another.” The little boy’s eyes lit, hopeful.

Curate Bauer nodded slowly, unable to speak for the knot growing in his throat.

“Father says we don’t need our house anymore, either; that someone else is needing it more and will be moving in soon. We’re going to Grandfather by and by, and he’ll have all the room we need, Father says. We’ll just have to wait nearer the border for a bit—until there’s a ship we can all fit on.”

Still, Curate Bauer could not trust his voice.

The child shifted uncomfortably and the priest knew he must pull himself together.

“Good-bye, Curate. It’s been nice knowing you.” The child held up his hand, and the priest took it in a firm grip.

As best he could, Curate Bauer made the sign of the cross on the little boy’s forehead, then whispered, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord shew his face to thee, and have mercy on thee. The Lord turn his countenance to thee and give thee peace.”

The child was halfway down the street when Curate Bauer called out, “Tell your father—”

The child stopped and turned, waiting. Curate Bauer tried again. “Tell him thank you—that I will keep this safe until he returns!”

The boy lifted his hand jubilantly. “I’ll tell him! But he said to do with it as you wish; we’ll not be back!” And he turned and ran home.

Curate Bauer wrapped the wooden box as carefully as if it were spun glass. “No,” he whispered, “you will not be back.” He pushed open the church door and stepped inside. When he’d closed the door, he walked to the right-side altar, knelt before the intricately carved crucifix, and wept.

Jason packed for one night. He dared spend no more time in Oberammergau and needed to get back to Munich for Hitler’s speech, lest the chief fire him before he got started. He didn’t know if Rachel and Amelie were still in the village. But if they were, there’d be no better time to get them out with all the focus on Hitler and his safety. A ruse might just be possible.

A story. I’ll treat it like any other story. What are the villagers doing about the Passion Play? What about the major roles? Has Jesus been called into the military? The twelve apostles?
He pictured thirteen men in beards and long robes—Jesus and the twelve apostles—toting German Lugers. The image made him wince.

He hopped the morning train, stowed his bag, and pulled a notepad from his chest pocket.

“Keep your head down and your nose clean”—that had been the chief’s advice as he slapped Jason on the back and showed him the newsroom door. That and “Don’t be late with those stories. Make ’em good or you’re off the payroll.”

Jason sighed and loosened his tie for the train ride. He sure
wouldn’t last long without a paycheck. He pulled his fedora down over his eyes—all the better to formulate his interviews.

But his mind returned to the conundrum that haunted him. Every passage he’d read in the Bible Frau Bergstrom had marked for him countered the things he’d assumed in life. He couldn’t say he’d been taught his values—more absorbed them over time.

The Confessing Church service he’d attended in Berlin had challenged those values—not so strongly as Bonhoeffer had written about them in
Nachfolge
, but his challenge had run counter to Jason’s personal belief system just the same.

Personal belief system? Is that the problem? That we’ve all just assumed truth is what we individually believe? Or is it a collective assumption? That the truth for Germany—and the truth for Britain and Poland and the US—is their own, regardless of how it affects others? Is there no truth—no universal truth—that applies to everyone?
He couldn’t buy that.

He’d tried to ask a pastor he’d sat next to on the train from Berlin. But he’d sensed that the pastor feared Jason was trying to trick him into saying something inflammatory, so Jason had backed off. He got that a lot—part and parcel of being in the newspaper trade. Sources either wanted to be quoted verbatim, ad nauseam, or remain anonymous.

He couldn’t blame them. It was dangerous to be an individual in the Reich today—dangerous to be committed to or allied with anyone but Hitler and the Nazi Party. And that made aligning yourself with the radical Jesus dangerous.

Jason must have dozed because he hadn’t heard the conductor call for tickets. The first he knew was a thumping on the crown of his hat. Jason pulled it from his face, blinked, and fished his ticket out of his pocket. The conductor punched it and moved on.

The Nazi behind him wasn’t so quick. “Papers.”

Jason handed them over.

“American. And where are you going?”

“Oberammergau—just overnight.”

“What brings you to Oberammergau at this time?”

“Checking out the Passion Play.” Jason hated that every encounter with these guys made his mouth go dry.

“You’re early, Herr Young.”

The passengers around them smirked, nodded approvingly, egging the Nazi on, eager to be seen in agreement with him.

“Right—well, that’s what the world wants to know. Is the show still going on? Is anybody coming? Are tickets available?”

The Nazi’s face froze. Jason knew the guy could take everything he’d said as sarcasm and make a scene, an example of him, or he could let it go. But Jason had learned that acting afraid was as much a “come and get me” signal as standing up and brandishing a pistol.

The Nazi chose to play the magnanimous host. “We will eagerly await your story, Herr Young.” He thrust the papers into Jason’s chest. “One day.”

Jason didn’t look up but pocketed his papers and pulled the fedora back over his eyes.

“I can’t stay in this stupid cupboard another minute!” Rachel fumed, exasperated. “This is ridiculous and completely unwarranted. It’s not as if the SS is standing outside the door.”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with Oma,” Lea retorted. “She doesn’t deserve it.”

“Girls!” Oma clapped her hands as if addressing a troop of unruly children.

Amelie laughed and clapped in response, as if Oma had started a game.

Rachel threw her hands up. “She’s driving me crazy! I can’t stay cooped inside that cupboard all day with her.”

“You’ve only been inside an hour! One hour!” Lea accused. “You must practice. You said you spent days and weeks in an attic!”