The Cold War is finally over. How had it affected those who were living through it, day by day? Lutheran Pastor Peter Hoffmann could see that the present government of his beloved East Germany was destroying its own people. Forty years of communist rule had left East Germans discouraged, defeated and cowed. Just the way the Soviet Union wanted them. But all this was about to change. By 1989, the Soviet's control over its satellites was weakening, often in violent and blood-thirsty ways. Peter and his fiancee, Krista, were working with the Leipzig underground to make sure the vicious riots that were taking place in other Soviet countries would not happen in their own homeland. Surely, there was a non-violent way to produce change. And Peter thought he had found it.
The Cold War is finally over. How had it affected those who were living through it, day by day? Lutheran Pastor Peter Hoffmann could see that the present government of his beloved East Germany was destroying its own people. Forty years of communist rule had left East Germans discouraged, defeated and cowed. Just the way the Soviet Union wanted them. But all this was about to change. By 1989, the Soviet's control over its satellites was weakening, often in violent and blood-thirsty ways. Peter and his fiancee, Krista, were working with the Leipzig underground to make sure the vicious riots that were taking place in other Soviet countries would not happen in their own homeland. Surely, there was a non-violent way to produce change. And Peter thought he had found it.
Chapter One
A siren sounds over the city, the bleak, soot-covered, decaying, East German city, at first light. The sound penetrates every crevice of the city, insinuating itself into every home, into every brain, louder and closer with every moment. An elderly couple is asleep in bed, clutching each other. At the sound of the siren, the old woman moans but does not waken. Her husband reaches, fumbling, to calm her.
In another home, a small apartment at the top of a crumbling state-built monolith, a toddler appears at his parentsâ bedroom door. His mouth is wide open. He is screaming, his face stained with tears, but his cries cannot be heard over the hee-hoo noise of the siren. He collapses on the floor, drumming his heels against the bare boards. His mother wakes at the sound and motions frantically for him to come to her. He runs to the bed and the mother scoops him up to hold him close.
Elsewhere in the city, a thin young man wakes to the same siren. He is handsome in a tired way, his wavy blond hair mussed, his face crumpled from a restless night, but his grey eyes are clear and resolute. He lies still on his bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of the siren to fade into the distance. Then he picks up the alarm clock and turns it towards the faint light seeping through the shabby curtains. It is 5:24 a.m. on a cloudy Sunday in early June. He turns off the alarm which had been set for 5:30, gets out of bed, shaves, and begins to dress - black trousers, black socks, black shoes. Over his black shirt he fits a white clerical collar.
The light grew stronger as Peter shrugged on his black jacket and left the room. It was 5:45 and curfew wasnât over until 6 a.m., winter or summer, except for the privileged: farm workers and bakers. He wasnât inclined to do anything that might attract the attention of the police, but neither was he willing to waste time waiting for the clock to decide when he might leave.
Unsplash
When he reached the sidewalk, he checked up and down the road. Finding it empty, he turned right and kept going. But the road wasn't entirely deserted. A second later a patrol car marked Volkspolitzei, the Peopleâs Police, turned the corner behind him, slowed, and dogged his steps. Peter glanced over his shoulder but didnât stop. The harassment continued for a few blocks until the vopos, tired of their game, sped past him and away.
Navigating that street was particularly difficult. So many muddy puddles and broken off sections of sidewalk, usually at the point where some rusting chain-link fence lapped into the street, construction barriers erected years before around a half-completed and subsequently abandoned apartment block, the tenements of communism.
The German Democratic Republic was running out of money. He crossed the street and turned left at the tiny mom-and-pop grocery on the corner, run by the Strausses. In the window, among the cabbages and potatoes, was the dusty sign âWorkers of the World, Unite!â That same sign was in every shop, every office, every schoolroom. He wondered if Herr and Frau Strauss, a placid older couple, actually believed that slogan. What would they do if the workers actually did unite?
 What if the schoolgirl who minded the cash register in the afternoons came to work one day with armband and banner, demanding higher wages and shorter hours? Advise her to go home and mind her manners, or do what she demanded and raise her pay? What if demonstrators in the central town platz formed barricades to block the import of cheap produce from Poland, sending back the trucks still loaded? Or, worse, dumping the cargo in the river, those same cabbages and potatoes the Strausses depended upon to fill their meager shelves. Go themselves to the riverbank under cover of darkness to fish them out?
Still, it didnât really matter whether they believed in the rights of workers over shop-owners. They had no choice whether to display the sign or not; it was delivered to them with the groceries. If they refused to place it in their window, there would be trouble. So, naturally, they did.
All workers, like the Strausses, pretended they were in favor of the government slogans. And in turn, the government pretended to care about the workers. It was a tacit bargain kept by all GDR citizens. No one spoke of it, neither the leaders nor the led, because a society built on such fragile foundations could easily crumble under an onslaught of frankness.
What would happen if the Strausses were to stop putting out the signs, stop voting in elections they knew to be a farce, began to say what they really thought in political meetings? No one would ever find out, because such behavior was unthinkable. The GDR was the most stable and prosperous socialist country in the world. Why would anyone want to jeopardize that?
Peter looked both ways before he crossed the street, even though there were no cars in sight. People had been arrested on less, and he didnât want to go missing before the Sunday Service. Church-going was one of the last freedoms allowed in his country; his parishioners deserved to keep that option.
At the end of the Second World War, forty years previously, Germany had been in ruins. More than five million men had died on the battlefields while starvation and disease took the lives of countless more. Displaced citizens and refugees from the east competed for food and housing. The transportation system had collapsed and industrial production was at a standstill.
His own family had avoided the worst of the destruction, living as they did on the edges of the Baltic Sea, yet far enough from the shipyards to have been spared the Alliesâ bombs. But the refugees found them there. Every day there were more and more of them, walking through their village in long grey lines, begging for a crust of bread or stripping the vegetable gardens for their long march to the west. Rumor had it that the Americans would feed them in the western zones. Or the Brits.
Only the children had the energy to run up to the houses, knocking on the door, while the farmers huddled in their back rooms, willing them to leave, to go away, as they had little enough to feed their own. His uncle told him stories of the shoe leather he and his brother chewed to keep the hunger pains at bay. His mother remembered the fruit tree in the backyard that held three green plums which she watched every day for a blush of red, until someone stole them, still green, and broke his grandmotherâs heart.
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The great nation of Germany had been divided by the winners of the war into four Occupation Zones, administered by the Allies â the United States, Great Britain, France, and Russia. Even the capital, Berlin, was divided among the four powers. The French, British and U.S. areas, which together became West Germany, were given loans to rebuild, a reorganized government in Bonn, and eventually set back on their feet. Things were quite different with the new soviet acquisitions. East Prussia, Saxony, Silesia and Pomerania, along with Poland, were occupied by Russia. The Soviets were also granted a share of the capitol city of Berlin, now surrounded by Soviet-controlled land. Â
The Alliesâ half of the city became an island at risk, a lone spark of democracy, a promised land forbidden to all soviet residents â West Berlin. A wall was constructed between the two halves of the city, with a no-manâs-land between. Crossing from East to West without permission was punishable by death, a death administered by the border guards even as the escapee was running for his life.
Russia was as broke as its conquests and began taking anything of value, mostly grain and brown coal, back home as war reparations. More than half the farmland was seized and set up as collective endeavors with the produce trucked away to Russia. For those who managed to hold on to their homes and farms, as his grandfather had done, this was going to have to be an âup by your own bootstrapsâ recovery with little help from their administrators.
Those were not good years for the GDR, nor for Peterâs family, stuck on a hardscrabble farm with no money for equipment or fertilizer, and no market for whatever produce they were able to coax out of the sandy soil. The West German economy boomed, while the East remained stagnant. Most civic freedoms and many personal ones were cancelled with the hope of intensifying the workersâ output. And of getting them to stay put at their jobs and in the country, so the great dream of socialism could eventually be realized.
Still, on this promising June morning, with the early sun slipping its rays under the cloud cover to warm his face, and the spicy scent of the flowering linden trees penetrating even this neglected corner of the city, Peter tried to force away all thought of the vagaries of European history and concentrate on how best to serve the members of his newly assigned parish.
Passing the imposing but dilapidated façade of his church, past the deeply carved stone sign of the âEvangelishe LutherKirche,â Peter turned and followed a narrow path, brightened only by a sprinkling of wild poppies, along the far side of the building, between the ancient, weathered stone and the aluminum siding of the apartment house next door, until he reached a small side entrance. He took out of his pocket a bunch of heavy, old-fashioned keys and let himself in. Flicking on the lights in the dark passageway, he went along it to a small room on the left crammed with three chest-high bureaus, a battered wooden table, and four unmatching chairs. From a wooden hanger bar stretched along the wall hung clerical vestments of all sizes and colors.
He took a long brass candle-lighter from a drawer in a bureau, ran a polishing rag over it once or twice, lit it, and passed through the far door into the sanctuary. There, after genuflecting, he began to light the candles, but only those on the altar dais. No need to illuminate the entire building, and candles were not cheap. He needed only enough light to read the prayers for the service, and most of those he had by heart.
An older man, white-haired and bent, with a sparse tuft of beard, entered the sanctuary from the opposite side, coming up the stairs from the basement with a stack of folded papers in his hands. Herr Brenner, the church Verger, had been working at this church since the end of the war in â45 and knew far more about it and the local congregation than Peter probably ever would. He nodded to Peter, but did not speak, moving on down the center aisle, setting out bulletins in the first seat of the first five pews. That done, he passed on down the aisle, past the rows of white fluted columns stretching to the roof, until he reached the huge, wooden front doors of the church. There he paused, opened a cupboard beside them, and flipped the switch for the overhead lights.
They were dazzlingly bright compared to the faint glow of the altar candles and Peter glanced up, startled. But the next moment Herr Brenner turned off all except the few which lit the altar area and the first five pews and lowered the rheostat on those. The dimness was welcome. The sun was up by now but its rays had not yet come into alignment with the small clerestory windows in the dome, nor would they until long after the service was over. The side windows were spare and dusty, blocked by buildings on either side and unadorned, as befitted a protestant church. Herr Brenner turned now to the front doors, opening not the two massive oak slabs with their five-foot wrought iron hinges, but a small sally port built into the right hand door. They were not expecting crowds that day.
Chapter Two
Peter completed the lighting of the candles on the altar and returned to the sacristy. Two altar boys of ten and eleven were already there, pulling their lace surplices over their heads and chatting about soccer teams. Peter took a vestment labeled âFather Hoffmanâ off one of the hangers and, proceeding with a private ritual, prayed wordlessly as he tied the golden rope belt around his surplice and settled the alb about his shoulders. A gold cross outlined in frayed gold thread decorated the front of the long tunic-like chasuble. Its color, green, indicated that this service would be taking place in Ordinary Time, the peaceful months of summer and fall that fell between the long period of reflection and cleansing that led to the joyous spring holy days of Easter and Pentecost and the early winter celebration of Advent which culminated in Christmas.
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The garments hung loosely on Peterâs frame, emphasizing his boney shoulders and large hands. Slender for his height, he had a face, if not handsome, at least pleasant, solemn in repose, studious when wearing his glasses, but lit from within by an engaging smile. He picked up his prayer-book from a table in the middle of the room, kissed it, and went to peek out the door to the sanctuary.Â
A few of the faithful had begun to enter the church, one by one. No one spoke or made eye contact with his or her neighbor, hoping to be overlooked in the twilight of the sanctuary. In a parody of piety, they kept their heads bowed and their eyes on the ground. The women wore veils or scarves pulled close around their faces. The men had their collars turned up and some even neglected to remove their hats. Wearing his reading glasses, Peter could see their faces only as pale splotches in the dimness.
They took their places, scattered here and there throughout the huge nave. Peter wished they would come up to the first few rows and sit in community with one another, but it was as if they hoped that by isolating themselves their presence might remain unnoticed. There were perhaps thirty people altogether in a room that could easily seat two thousand and another five hundred in the balcony. Even so, those who came on Sundays would only attend the 6:30 a.m. service when for much of the year it was still dark outside. The 9 a.m. service had died out long ago.
Taking off his glasses, Peter could also see the usual representative of the Stasi, their countryâs Ministry of State Security, waiting in his black leather coat back in the shadows. Even though, by law, the churches were allowed to provide âfree gathering spaceâ for whoever wished to take advantage of it, the secret police still kept notes on those who showed up. For use at a later date, Peter assumed. Even now he was taking out his black book, thumbing through, his eyes boring into the back of the congregants as he identified them one by one. The people in the pews, perhaps feeling that fearful gaze strike the backs of their necks, shrank down even lower in the seats.
The communist regime of the German Democratic Republic had made it, if not a crime, then at least a gesture of disloyalty to attend church services. All allegiance must be given to the State, not some non-existent deity. It had been hoped, for forty years now, that religion would die out as those who practiced it did â slowly, perhaps, but inexorably â and the next generation, free from old, restrictive superstitions would emerge to lead the GDR into a bright new era. It was beginning to look as if that hope would be fulfilled. Yet Peter did not despise these few, grey souls who kept their faces shielded even as they defied public opinion. On the contrary, they were his heroes, the only ones left with the courage of their beliefs.
The service began with the boys entering, one ringing a tiny bell, followed by Peter holding the Book. He placed it on the altar, stepped back a few feet, and bowed from the waist, murmuring the words of the entrance psalm. âI will go unto the altar of God, to God who giveth joy to my youth.â
When the time for communion arrived, the small congregation crept rather than marched to the rail, eyes down, movements muted, keeping away from the light of the few, sparse candles as much as possible. As the last parishioner was served, Peter glanced up and noticed another man, one who had not come for communion nor even to kneel alone in the back and pray silently, as some did. Nor was he one of the name-takers. He stood off to one side, half-hidden by a pillar, and watched. He was wearing a dark coat and a hat with a wide brim, similar to the usual dress of the Stasi, but he was heavy, obviously overweight, a condition the Stasi higher-ups would never tolerate. He looked familiar. Peter wondered how long he had been waiting there.
At the end of the service, Peter came to stand at the communion rail and raised his voice so that all those in the back pews or hidden in the shadows might hear. Â âTomorrow night, as usual, we will convene here for prayer. We have been meeting weekly to pray for peace since the beginning of the year. Some of you have joined us. Others have, perhaps wisely, stayed away.â
There was a sibilant murmur from the congregation, almost non-existent. Peter wondered if he had imagined it. Had there been something objectionable in his announcement, more objectionable than usual? No reason not to address that now.
âPerhaps,â he began tentatively, âyou recognize the incongruity of that statement. Have we not, as a nation, been at peace with our neighbors for forty years?â
There was no response this time, not even the whisper he thought he had heard before.
He cleared his throat. âStill, this peace that we treasure may not last much longer and our prayers are more essential now than ever.â
Perhaps it was unfair of him to make these demands of his congregation. Attendance at the Prayer Vigils was risky, more risky even than the regular Sunday service. But they needed to understand.
âSurely you must be aware of the current unrest in Poland and Hungary,â he said with a touch of exasperation. âEven if the State media have declined to mention it, those who are able to receive broadcasts from the West have seen the demonstrations in the city centers and the shipyards, usually followed by arrests and police brutality. There is no guarantee that what is happening in those neighboring countries will not spill over our borders, someday soon, and confront us with the same choices they face.â
He paused, allowing space for questions or comments, but there was only silence from the gathered few. A very loud silence. Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. He didnât yet know these people very well.
âIâm sure we have differing opinions on what this unrest might mean, or how we might welcome, or resist it, if it comes. But there is one matter on which Iâm sure we all agree â that we must continue on in peace and love and mutual support. Violence is forbidden us, no matter what our politics or loyalties.â
He glanced at them, one by one. No one met his eye. âAs is revenge, if it comes to that.â
Only more silence.
âVery well. We will begin our prayers tomorrow at 6 p.m. Please be prompt. We must be finished and home before curfew.â
His congregation rose to go as he turned and left the altar area, the boys preceding him into the sacristy. Walking away, he saw the stranger push himself off the pillar against which he had been leaning, and head in the direction of the inner passageway.
Not another compliance check, he prayed. They took so much time out of his days.
In the sacristy, the boys tore off their vestments and exited quickly.
Peter smiled at them. âSee you tonight?â
âDanielâs taking my place,â said one.
âFine.â
As he began to remove his own vestments, the door to the passageway opened again and the stranger entered, a stranger no more.
Chapter Three
Peter sighed in relief.
âKarl! I thought that might be you. But why do you have to sneak around behind the pillars?â
Karl came forward and enveloped Peter in a bear hug. He was a heavy-set man in his early fifties with a prosperous and successful look about him, dressed in a dapper style as befitted his profession as a theater producer.
âI came to the service. Is that so surprising?â
âFor you, yes.â He turned to hang up his robe. âAnd so early! I usually donât catch a glimpse of you before noon.â
Karl smirked. âItâs not so much that Iâm up earlyâŚâ
â⌠as that you havenât been to bed, yet.â He laughed. Then, more soberly, âYou shouldnât take such chances, Karl. Theyâre getting stricter about the curfew these days.â
He went to a cupboard and took out two cups and saucers, spoons and sugar, and placed them on the table.
âWhen the theater lets out,â said Karl, taking a seat, âthereâs such a crowd in the streets, anyone could disappear. Even the Stasi canât keep track of every citizen.â
Peter went over to a hot plate perched on a bureau, picked up the coffee pot he had set out earlier and filled the two cups. Then he took a waxed paper bag from a drawer and placed it in front of Karl who peeked inside, then stuck in his big hand and pulled out a pastry.
âStrudel! My favorite!â He took a huge bite.
âCompliments of Frau Brenner.â
Peter sat and crossed himself, taking a moment of silence. Karl, his mouth full, awkwardly followed his example.
âSo, where do you go after the theater?â asked Peter, sipping his coffee. âNo, donât tell me,â he added quickly. âI just hope itâs safe.â
âSafe as houses! But Iâm not sure Iâm taking any more chances than you. Are you going to hold a rally here again tomorrow night?â
âRally?â Peter wasnât sure thatâs what heâd call it. âItâs a prayer meeting. And why not? The people seem to need it. Itâs been hard on them, keeping silent all these years, pretending they agree with the regimeâs policies. If we have a window nowâŚâ
âThatâs no window, Peter. Thatâs a trapdoor.â He took another bite. âWhat about the leather raincoat in the back?â
âThatâs nothing new. One of them is here every Sunday.â
Karl tilted his head then raised a hand for silence. He got up and went to the door, pressing his ear against the wood.
âHeâs not still here?â asked Peter when he came back to the table.
âNo. But next time you might not be so lucky. What youâre doing is dangerous, Peter. Theyâre going to call you in.â
âI would hardly call thirty Lutherans singing hymns a threat to the state.â
âThat was three weeks ago. The week after that there were fifty. Last week, eighty.â
âSo?â said Peter with a shrug. âEighty Lutherans singing hymns.â
âThe way this thing is growingâŚ!â grumbled Karl.
âMore power to them. The people need this, Karl.â
âYou said that before. How exactly do they need this? Do they need to be thrown in jail? Do they need to have their heads broken with a policemanâs truncheon?â
âMaybe they do. Theyâve been standing by silently all these years, while terrible things have been going on all around them. And theyâve had to close their eyes and turn away.â
âIf theyâve kept quiet this longâŚ!â
There was a sudden knock at the door. The two of them fell silent. The knocking took on more of an insistent quality. They heard an indignant, muffled voice.
The Candlelight Revolution takes readers into the heart of East Germany during the twilight years of the Cold War. Set in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), the novel centers around Peter, a Lutheran pastor who struggles with his faith and duty in a country where state oppression and surveillance are constants. As the crumbling regime of the GDR fights to stay in power, Peter faces a moral and spiritual crisis that mirrors the struggles of his fellow citizens.
From the opening scenes, where a haunting siren reverberates through the early-morning city, author Pamela Urfer paints a vivid picture of life under communist rule. The portrayal of daily strugglesâwhether it's the watchful eye of the Volkspolitzei (People's Police) or the citizens' general fearâsets a bleak society's tone.
Peter's inner conflict drives the plot. His role as a pastor places him in a unique position within the community. Rather than resorting to grand speeches or acts of rebellion, Peter's defiance is subtle yet profoundâholding prayer vigils that attract many disillusioned citizens. Even as the government's surveillance grows more invasive, Peter chooses to stand firm through peaceful resistance.
The novel discusses the personal costs of standing against an authoritarian government and doesn't shy away from showing how challenging resistance is. Peter's relationships are strained, especially with Krista, who questions the risk of protesting a regime that has provided stability. Their dialogue about whether the compromises of East German life and individual freedoms are worth it adds a touching layer to the story.
One of the strengths of The Candlelight Revolution lies in how the author describes the feeling of the city. The oppressive mood is ever-present, but so is the sense of impending change and hope. The book builds toward a climax where the reader feels the power of all the citizens who protested. Yet the climax feels personal, focusing on individuals' choices to run away or toward danger.
Through Peter's journey, readers are reminded of the quiet courage and bravery it takes to stand up for what's right. Fans of historical fiction, especially those interested in the Cold War, will find The Candlelight Revolution a satisfying and emotional read.