From Pictures to Reality (continued)
Standing in Miesberg's flower sacristy, I close my eyes and conjure memories of a photograph in monochrome clarity. An exposed light bulb protrudes from the plaster ceiling, casting pale light on sparse white walls, pine board paneling, and electrical cords snaking along wood and plaster boundaries. On the left, Fr. Paul Boeminghaus, C.P.'s spectacled, shadowy form looms in an arched doorway, pausing for the unknown cameraman; to his right, a descending staircase fashioned out of unfinished wooden planks diagonally slices the photograph at a severe angle. Tucked beneath the steep, slanting stairwell, Fr. Viktor perches himself on a blanket-covered bench. Without the striped mattress and limp, telltale pillow lumped on its far end I'd never imagine that this inadequate furnishing is, in reality, the improvised cot where he slept.
Sixty years later the two courageous Passionists are mere images forever trapped in that grainy black and white photo, but the austere flower sacristy where they heroically defied Nazi orders to abandon their monastery remains. Guiding our tour group through shadowy recesses concealed beyond the Miesberg church's ornate, beautifully painted altar, Fr. Gregor unlocks a heavy wooden doorway. My family and I follow him into an old, dimly illuminated storage room no larger than a walk-in closet, cluttered with gold-plated candlesticks and assorted seasonal decorations. It's smaller than I expected. I realize for the first time that it's V-shaped, and the narrowing walls create an ominous perception of confinement compelling the five people presently squeezed within its limited space to rigidly stand together. Curious onlookers clustering outside the arched threshold pause at Fr. Gregor's upraised palm. "Perhaps we should have only the Koch family at this time," he says, "just the Koch family, please. I doubt very much that we can fit any more people."
While the German Foundation Provincial recounts his predecessor's wartime trials and tribulations, I ruminate over this claustrophobic enclosure, the dingy floorboards creaking beneath my feet. In that cramped triangular space beneath the slanting stairwell I imagine my great granduncle's plump, robed figure uncomfortably huddled upon a bed so small that, if he rolled over, he'd tumble to the floor in a bruised, miserable heap. It's heartrending, imagining any family member enduring four years of hardship, though on an intuitive level, I understand Fr. Viktor's reasons. He willingly embraced this spiritual challenge, because as a Passionist, he offered suffering to God, and in doing so, deepened his connection with Christ Crucified.
Later that week, Peter Bartmann and his English-speaking daughter Elizabeth continue this journey from photos to reality, affording my father, Fr. Rob, and me an opportunity to tour other pertinent historical sites: Schwarzenfeld's cemetery, the winding road where American tanks rolled into town, and the train station where the opening chapters of a harrowing human drama occurred. Together, we contemplate rusty, grass-covered train tracks stretching and receding into an overcast horizon, and the old station warehouse, a stark, red-bricked hulk awkwardly juxtaposed against a backdrop of tidy modern houses. Except for faint clicking from an occasional camera shutter, nothing breaks the meditative pall descending upon us. Knowledge of past events enhances our perception of ghosts that still haunt this aging, dreary relic from human history's darkest era, and for an instant, unbidden images race through our minds: Allied airplanes scream overhead, swooping, strafing train cars they've mistakenly identified as a German military convoy. The real occupants - shuddering, emaciated Poles, Jews, and Russian prisoners from the Flossenbürg concentration camp - thrash against locked doors in a frantic effort to evacuate. Those tortured souls who succeed leap toward Nazi soldiers ordered to fire upon anyone attempting escape.
My personal contemplation shifts toward the moments when Fr. Viktor confronted the atrocity's remains in horrific living color - an incident he omitted from written accounts and, to my knowledge, never discussed with another human being. However, he lacked the luxury of relegating this atrocity to his subconscious, for in WWII's devastating aftermath, he helped Schwarzenfeld's Catholic population contend with lingering spiritual and emotional trauma. "How did you face this, Viktor?" I long to know. "What thoughts crossed your mind after you realized the full magnitude of what the Nazis had done?" Where details are lacking, the literary artist reaches into personal life experiences and draws out a common reference point: Christ's Passion and the religious significance of His suffering and Resurrection. Perhaps my great granduncle believed that, despite the incomprehensible acts humanity is capable of inflicting upon itself, the cross always triumphs over evil, bringing peace and reconciliation in its brilliant light. My wandering gaze follows train tracks vanishing into the distance, and I realize that people in our modern world desperately need to hear that message.
Every night as I drift to sleep in my hotel room at the Schloss Schwarzenfeld, I dream of waking tomorrow morning, pulling back tasseled, heavy red drapes covering the large picture window, and discovering WWII-era American troops parking jeeps along the cobblestone driveway below. Clutching my tape recorder, I push through the hotel's revolving glass doors and dash into May 1945. I know precisely where to locate the famous priest who speaks perfect English: by this time he's at Schwarzenfeld's town hall, interpreting for local citizens presenting requests to American officials. Naturally my great granduncle is a little perplexed by this young stranger bursting into the Rathaus, silencing the din as she cries out his name. After explaining who I am and tearfully expressing how he's become such an inspirational force in my life, I'd flip on my tape machine and, with a fierce persistence he'd find eerily familiar, I'd eventually pose questions I've pondered well over a year. "Tell me about the day when the American 26th Infantry Division arrived. Who called you to the Rathaus? Where were you when…"
But no such luck. I awake the next morning, frowning at silvery satellite dishes perched upon red-tile roofs and shiny, modern BMWs parked below my window. Despite the unavoidable fact that I'm rooted in 2005, I realize that my great granduncle can still relay his story - perhaps not with his own voice, but through those of eyewitnesses who experienced the same historical events.
Since I'm verifying basic facts, I find myself engaged in a dynamic process. The questions I prepared prior to my flight across the Atlantic are partially based upon old theories and incomplete information that eyewitnesses are updating each passing minute. I'm also facing another inevitable difficulty in investigating sixty-year-old facts: each person remembers events differently (and sometimes incorrectly), and thus it's incumbent upon the historical researcher to discern similarities relayed in each verbal account, for this is where the true story lies.
Pressing my tape machine's record button, I conduct my first interview and immerse myself in a new experience: I'm gradually learning the art of asking questions. Probing an eyewitness' knowledge challenges the researcher to rapidly evaluate information offered and, with a combination of skill and luck, formulate a strategy that will verify theories or unearth factual gems. I often wonder, "How much should I focus my witness' train of thought? If I permit them to wander into stories they believe are most pertinent, will I lose precious time, or potentially gain new perspectives?" In an international research setting, the translator introduces yet another component in this delicately balanced equation; I'm fortunate that my interpreter, Fr. Gregor, is a local Naaburg native who understands the Bavarian dialect and culture. Perpetually serene, he listens to a full minute of testimony and helps sift answers for valuable information.
On one occasion a spontaneous, communicative Frau describing encounters with Fr. Viktor offers details worth gold. Her wrinkled, bony hands slicing the air, she rambles an eager, breathless stream of German describing "the Blacks," a colloquial term referring to citizens who regularly attended church during WWII, solidly supporting the Catholic clergy despite escalating social pressure to abandon their faith. Eyewitnesses who clearly remember this time period affirm that Fr. Viktor's continued presence in Schwarzenfeld fortified the religious spirituality of this group. Rather than publicly leading from the pulpit where Nazi collaborators scrutinized his sermons for politically sensitive messages, he guided devout Catholic followers through the confessional, and indirectly by setting an unforgettable example of nonviolent resistance. Caution is essential, as Fr. Paul Boeminghaus' story suggests: in June 1944, Gestapo officials observe him distributing letters purporting a "miracle that will bring joy to the world," and they summarily arrest him for spreading anti-war propaganda. Any act interpreted as an attempt to counteract Nazi ideology resulted in swift, severe retribution.
Another eyewitness offers an intriguing personal story that reveals an insight into my great granduncle's tedious situation: "I was a mass boy in the parish church," he explains, Irmi translating in flowing English. "One morning, the parish priest asked me to fetch something from Fr. Viktor. I was accompanied by another boy, and we both wore heavy wooden shoes with nails. We approached the church sacristy and the metal of the nails made a loud sound against church's stone floor. Fr. Viktor heard footsteps pounding through the church, approaching the sacristy … he emerged looking very pale and when he saw us he said, 'Thank God, it's you! I thought the S.S. was coming to get me.'"
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