Stories From the Other Side: The Impact of Faith in a German Town During WWII (continued)
As with any journey into history, it's helpful to examine the broader picture before narrowing focus on a particular place and time. During World War II, the battle lines extended far beyond the eastern and western fronts: they surged into the spiritual realm as well. When Hitler rose to power, an ideological struggle ensued between two religions—one based on love and compassion, the other forged from fanatical nationalism, yet both sought the salvation of Germany and attempted to define faith and morality according to their individual doctrines.
Nazism emerged from a black river of suffering that coursed through Germany in WWI's aftermath. Enormous war reparations stipulated in the Versailles treaty crippled the country's economic recovery, and by 1923, inflation soared—4.2 trillion Deutschmarks equaled one American dollar. Germany obtained a crucial financial lifeline from U.S. industry, which invested in its devastated business sector, but this dramatic reprieve was short lived: the 1929 Stock Market crash precipitated a worldwide depression that terminated critical money flow, utterly shattering the country's tenuous economy. The Deutschmark's plummeting value left the population starving and unemployed. Against this desolate backdrop Adolf Hitler rose to power and beguiled the downtrodden population with a message of hope and German supremacy, channeling the black river's course to achieve his own aims. When Hitler ascended to the Chancellery, Nazism developed into an ideology that bled into every aspect of daily life, replete with rituals, social belonging, moral values, and a sense of purpose. Faith in a higher power shifted to the state, and ultimately the Führer.
Eugenics was perhaps the most insidious element in Nazi ideology, contending that desired attributes of the "German race" evolved through natural selection. An Aryan who aided "lesser" races defied these evolutionary forces, allowing weaker members of society to survive another day. To the Nazis, Christianity was "anti-evolutionary" and thus "alien to the German spirit," focusing too much on forgiveness, salvation, compassion, love, mercy, racial equality, and the needs of the sick and crippled—concepts central to Christ's message on the Cross.
Ultimately, the Nazis discovered that Christianity's hold over Germany was difficult to break, and in several instances they attempted to undermine Catholicism by borrowing elements of its mysticism and ceremony. A Time Magazine article from April 13, 1942 illustrates one case: "While thousands of young Americans prepared to receive their first Easter Communion, 1,100,000 German youths, just turned 14, had a first Nazi 'communion' two weeks before Easter—complete with organ music, readings from Mein Kampf, and sermons based on the Führer's writing. Reich Youth Leader Arthur Axmann spoke over the radio for the Berlin ceremony, cited Hitler as a name to worship and an example for all young people to follow. The Nazi 'communion' is henceforth to take place every year around Easter, to incorporate each year's new crop of youth into the party. Church Communions, as such, will not be prohibited, but the Nazis expect that the 'civil communion' will draw most of Germany's youth, and that religious services for Germans are 'doomed to be crowded out by the new life of new times.'"
On April 16, 1941, when an imperious Nazi Kreisleiter (county-level leader) demanded that Schwarzenfeld's Passionists gather their belongings and leave the Miesberg monastery within one hour, I can only imagine the whirlwind of thoughts gusting through my great granduncle's mind. Despite an economic depression, vacillating support from an American mother province, and interference from a growing National Socialist movement, the indomitable Provincial had established a German-Austrian Foundation, disproving critical superiors who predicted that his efforts would ultimately fail. I'm sure he despised the idea of returning home to fulfill their cynical expectations. Amidst the chaos, he discovered distraught parishioners flocking into the monastery courtyard, eager to help the Passionists who provided for their spiritual and material needs during Germany's depression era. He remembered the timeless bond that he and his brethren shared with the local community, a friendship cemented in the foundations of the monastery they constructed together seven years earlier. Schwarzenfeld's Catholics referred to Fr. Viktor as "our Provinsche," an endearing moniker derived from his official title Pater Provinzial. As his gaze drifted from one sympathetic visage to the next, perhaps he perceived the momentous importance of preaching Christ Crucified in Germany. Now more than ever, his flock needed a voice thundering from the church pulpit, reminding them that salvation is attainable only through the Cross, and that Christ is present in all who suffer—regardless of nationality, race, or creed. Of all the inspirational words my great granduncle penned nearly seventy years ago, I sense that one particular quote described his frame of mind at this moment: "Eternity is long, and will it not be worthwhile to rejoice for all eternity for overcoming difficulties and doing a great work of God, instead of having the feeling of abandoning a struggling work of God?" Rather than forsaking the townspeople who looked to him for guidance, or the mission that brought him to Germany twenty years ago, he defied the eviction order by entrenching himself in the closet-sized church flower sacristy.
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