Mighty Fortress

Mighty Fortress

  By Kristen Stieffel

  Copyright 2012 Kristen Stieffel

  License Notes:

  Cover Photo © Jan S.—Fotolia.com

  Cover design by Kristen Stieffel

  Hymn excerpts from “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” by Martin Luther, 1529

  English translation by Frederick Henry Hedge, 1852

  Contents

  Mighty Fortress

  About the Author

  Mighty Fortress

  Though his stomach writhed, Pastor Gottlieb closed the Epiphany service with his usual benediction. Blessing the brown-shirted men in his church seemed sacrilegious. It took an effort of will to remember that even the stormtoopers who had overrun Austria last spring were God’s children, however iniquitous they might be.

  He dutifully shook hands with all the worshipers as they departed, even the ones in Nazi uniforms. Then he went back inside, blowing warmth into his hands and rubbing their touch from his skin.

  Behind him, the sexton closed the arched oaken doors with a resounding thud. Together, they returned to the sanctuary to extinguish the candles in the two tall, wrought-iron candelabra flanking the altar.

  The Mighty Fortress Church of Christ was a gothic structure of gray stone and leaded glass. Its centuries-old vaulted ceiling covered a sanctuary full of dark, carved-oak pews that dated back almost to the days of Martin Luther.

  While the sexton proceeded with his task, Gottlieb stopped in the aisle.

  Four people remained in the rear pew. Gottlieb had noticed during the service how awkward they seemed—unfamiliar with the order of worship. Perhaps they were Catholic. Rumor had it the Nazis were now rounding up Catholics along with the Jews. And the Negroes. And the Trade Unionists and the Gypsies.

  He half expected to be next.

  “May I help you?”

  The young man rose, a black fedora in his hand. He was about ten years younger than Gottlieb, thirty or so, thin and pale with dark hair and a narrow nose. His blue-gray eyes were wide. “Begging your pardon, Father, but we—” He choked.

  “I’m not a priest. You may call me Pastor.”

  The young man, a woman presumably his wife, a little boy leaning against his mother’s ribs, and an elderly woman—every one of them radiated fear. Whatever had caused such tortured expressions likely needed to be discussed in private.

  He shot a glance over his shoulder. Except for the sexton, the room was vacant.

  “Come to my office.” He showed them to the tiny room down the hall from the narthex. There, he offered the old woman the one side chair. She was small, and thin. He was nearly six feet tall, and her head only came to the middle of his chest. Her back was bent with age. White hair showed beneath her small black hat. So frail.

  He hung up his cassock and stole. Then he pulled his desk chair around for the trim young woman. She looked a little younger than her husband. Her cream-colored hat with a tan hatband topped a chic lavender suit. She wore her tawny hair in a snood the color of her hat. Her hands trembled as they worried along the hem of her jacket.

  The boy, five or six years old, had a soft, round face and hazel eyes like his mother. He stood beside her chair, clutching her arm.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “We were evicted from our apartment,” the husband said. “We need a place to stay.” A crack in his voice betrayed his stiff shoulders.

  “Evicted? Why?”

  “I—“

  “Everyone was evicted.” The old woman muttered. “The building looted, things dumped in the street like so much garbage…”

  A cold burning ran through Gottlieb like a sword. He quivered. Stormtroopers had been in his church just moments ago. He rubbed his hands again, the ghost of their touch suddenly prickling uncomfortably.

  The young man continued. “We need a place to hide until I can arrange passage to Switzerland.”

  Gottlieb wished he had kept his chair. He sank against the edge of his desk as his heart twisted. “You’re Jewish.”

  “Everyone in our building was Jewish,” the old woman said.

  “Mutti—“ the young man tried to interrupt her, but the old woman went on, pride firing behind tired eyes.

  “Thank God we weren’t home when they turned everyone out. God knows what happens to our neighbors now. Us, we could walk by on the other side of the street and pretend we don’t live there.”

  “They carried off Mutti’s silver tea service in a cardboard box.” The young woman wept into her handkerchief. Her son buried his little head in her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around him.

  Gottieb’s throat burned with restrained tears.

  “Please,” the husband said, “we just need a place to hide while I work this out. I have money—since the Anschluss, I carry it on me.” He started to remove his brown overcoat, perhaps to reach a money belt. Under the coat, he wore a handsomely tailored gray gabardine suit.

  The pastor waved his hand. “No, no money.” He took a deep breath, and combed his fingers through his short blond hair. If he turned them out, where would they go? The Nazis would surely find them.

  More than anything, Gottlieb wished to thwart the Nazis who had overrun his homeland. But he was one man. What could he do? Dare he try to hide this little family?

  Though styled like the castles of its day, the church was small. He did not even have a manse, just a two-room apartment behind his office.

  He could not ask anyone in the congregation to take them in. He didn’t know whom to trust. Some, like he, opposed the Nazi occupation. Or claimed to. But many had joined the Nazi party anyway. There was no way to discern who spoke the truth, and who said one thing to the pastor and another to the party officials.

  The family waited patiently, their wide eyes focused on him while he deliberated. He felt the weight of their gazes and tensed his muscles to maintain his composure. “I cannot guarantee your safety anywhere but in the church,” he said, finally. “There is a tiny access-way behind the organ pipes. It is filthy, because no one ever goes in there. But because no one ever goes there, you will be safe.” He stood. “Wait here. I will make sure no one is in the sanctuary before I take you there.”

  “God bless you, Pastor.” The young man shook Gottlieb’s hand with both of his.

  “I hope so.” The pastor clapped the young man’s shoulder.

  Gottlieb opened the door slowly, wincing as it creaked slightly on its hinges. No sign of the sexton. He stepped through the door. Empty, silent. A chill trailed his spine despite the sweat forming on his brow and palms.

  With his heart beating like a kettledrum, he went alone to verify that the sexton had gone and the sanctuary was empty. He checked every row, every corner. No one.

  Relief flooded him, but his clammy palms still were still slippery when he fetched a flashlight from his desk, then led the others through the little door at the back of the choir loft to the robing room.

  He stood on a chair to pull down the trap door in the ceiling. A narrow ladder rattled out. “It’s here in case the pipes need service.” He led them up. “It will be very loud here on Sundays, and also on Thursdays when the organist comes to rehearse.”

  “A small price to pay,” the young man said. He took the old woman’s hand, and helped her up.

  “My bones are too old for such a climb.” Her breath wheezed, but she reached the top. “Oy, such a mess I’ve never seen.”

  The young woman tsked from below. “Don’t complain, Mutti.” The little boy scampered up the ladder, his mother behind him. At the top of the ladder, she whispered to the pastor. “Don’t mind my grandmother. She thinks age confers the right to complain.”

  “I heard that,” the grandmother snapped.

  Pastor Gottlieb s
hone his flashlight around the room. Little more than a corridor, really. Three meters by one. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, and cobwebs hung all around. A rat scurried away from the beam of light and disappeared into a hole in the baseboard.

  “If you’ll bring me a broom and a dustpan, I’ll clean.” The young woman’s hand clutched her throat. Her smile was taut, and her voice choked as if she might vomit.

  He nodded, and passed the flashlight to the husband. “I’ll bring you something to eat, and some blankets. And something to cover up that hole.”

  The husband grabbed Gottlieb’s hand in both of his. Tears dripped onto his fingers. “Thank you, Pastor. You will save our lives, doing this.”

  Gottlieb’s eyes swelled with unreleased tears of his own. “I hope so. I pray that your family will find safety. And, as always, I pray for the freedom of Austria.”

  “Amen,” the grandmother said.

  + + +

  A mighty Fortress is our God, A Bulwark never failing;

  Our Helper He amid the flood Of mortal ills prevailing.

  For still our ancient foe Doth seek to work us woe;

  His craft and power are great, and armed with cruel hate.

  On earth is not his equal.

  + + +

  On behalf of Yitzak Spiegel, the young man in the service closet, Gottlieb sent and