The American Provinsche
April 9, 1941
The car, a black and silver-trimmed Mercedes, rumbled out of the hills like thunder from a cloudless sky. Stillness gripped the Bavarian village of Schwarzenfeld. Field hands plowing a lush expanse of farmland stood bloodless, breathless, haunted, watching it pass. Townswomen drew aside curtains and furtively peered outside. They whispered among themselves. Look there. Do you see it? Has someone been denounced? Is it the Gestapo, do you think? Someone is in trouble, that is clear enough. Who? The harbinger rushed across an iron bridge spanning the Naab River. It roared between knots of white plaster houses and scattered a cattle herd lumbering along Schwarzenfeld’s main road, the Hauptstrasse. Then, to the dismay of all who watched, it slowed. The Mercedes veered onto a tree-lined alley and clambered up the Miesberg, a grassy hill that loomed protectively over their town.
An idyllic sun-gold church and monastery crowned the mountain. Fr. Viktor Koch, C.P., hastened from the churchyard where he had prayed a rosary at the grave of Fr. Valentin Lenherd. He shaded ice-blue eyes from the morning sun and shivered. “Well, this doesn’t bode well,” the sixty-seven-year-old missionary said to himself in English, his native tongue. The government had confiscated privately-owned cars for the war effort two years ago, forcing civilians to travel on foot or by train. In this remote corner of the Oberpfalz, only gendarmes, secret state police, and political officials enjoyed the privilege of automobiles, and if they rolled up to his door in one, it meant the Reich deemed their mission important enough to deprive German troops of a gasoline ration.
The Mercedes skulked through his courtyard gate. It prowled within the shadow of a plaster wall that circled his church and cloister. His face cold and stern, Fr. Viktor tucked his arms beneath a long black mantle. He longed to flee into the mystic peace of his hilltop monastery, the Miesbergkloster, but thought better of it. Men arriving in a Mercedes would insist upon speaking to the pater provincial.
Car doors opened and slammed shut. A lone pair of boots approached in a brisk cadence.
“Heil Hitler.”
“Herr Amtsleiter Seiz,” Fr. Viktor said. “Gruess Gott—God greet you.” He considered himself fortunate: in this part of Bavaria, fervent Catholics outnumbered National Socialists four to one, and even devout party members grudgingly permitted him to return a greeting in God’s name. His oiled and ticking mind shifted gears into Hochdeutsch. He had learned High German from his mother and father, both immigrants who escaped serfdom in their native fatherland to begin life anew on American shores.
“What brings you out here to Schwarzenfeld, Herr Amtsleiter?”
“You have an important guest,” Seiz explained. “That man you see over there, the one getting out of the car. That is Gauleiter Fritz Wächtler. He is here from Bayreuth, and we have arranged for him to stop at the Miesberg.”
“You brought the Gauleiter here?” Fr. Viktor said. The political office was comparable to that of an American state governor. His visitors were German officials, not Gestapo. Still, he felt no inclination to relax. “And what have we done to deserve this honor?”
“Gauleiter Wächtler would like to inspect your monastery,” Seiz announced.
“Weren’t you here for that last week?” The provincial looked at him sidelong. “I didn’t like it then, and I sure don’t like it now. Why are you doing it again?”
“The Gauleiter wishes to see the Miesbergkloster himself.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why a Gauleiter would be interested in a monastery.” Fr. Viktor studied Seiz. The Amtsleiter—a county-level office director—was in his early forties. He wore a meticulous brown uniform and a matching cap that bore silver banding and an eagle insignia below its peaked crown. The hat’s brim cast a shadow over his sharp nose and fair, clean-cut features, shading sapphire eyes that gleamed with fierce purpose. Meeting that cold jewel stare, the provincial pulled his mantle closer, tighter.
“Look, this is Holy Week and I have to join my community for prayer. Come back another time.”
“But I have orders to show Gauleiter Wächtler around the Miesbergkloster this morning.”
Seiz plucked a paper from his breast pocket. The letter bore Wächtler’s signature along with an inevitable stamp, an eagle wrapping its talons around a wreathed swastika.
“Apparently you do,” Fr. Viktor muttered.
“We will not be an inconvenience to you, Pater. Go attend your prayer service, we can find our own way around the building.”
Fr. Viktor’s skeptical gaze bounded from the party member’s satisfied smile to the paper fluttering in his hand. “It seems I have no choice in the matter.”
“I see we have an understanding,” Seiz said amicably.
Fr. Viktor plodded up a staircase leading to the monastery door while Seiz beckoned the two men who had emerged from the car. The hawkish gathering struck Fr. Viktor as an odd assemblage of party leadership. Behind Seiz stood Bürgermeister Georg Braun, the mayor of Schwarzenfeld. The man wore a gold-fringed swastika button on his lapel, confirming that he had been a party faithful since the day Hitler announced his revolution in a Munich beer hall. Gauleiter Wächtler, a stern-lipped, silver-haired man, loomed beside the mayor like a roiling thunderhead.
Silence stretched after introductions. Three party members waited for Fr. Viktor to open the door of this monastery, his haven.
“Meine Herren, welcome to the Miesbergkloster,” he greeted warily. “If you’ll follow me. . . ”
Heaving open an arched wooden door and stepping aside for his visitors, Fr. Viktor squinted into a dimly lit vestibule. Impatiently waiting for his eyes to adjust, he flinched at black shapes, the figures of four monks from his depleted community. His brethren shuffled along, all gray or graying, the oldest bow-backed by age. They gawked at swastika armbands and swung to him, shaken, wide-eyed. He waved them away.
Fr. Paul Böhminghaus rushed down a wooden staircase. The middle-aged Austrian lingered until he caught Fr. Viktor’s eye, then receded into a shadow haunting the doorway. Last week he had transferred from the community at Maria Schutz to the one in Schwarzenfeld, succeeding Fr. Valentin as rector of this monastery.
Paul. The provincial reflected. The death of his dear friend Fr. Valentin had torn a hole in his soul, and when he needed a listening ear or a steady presence by his side, he invariably found Fr. Paul standing at earnest attention.
The Austrian priest joined him and peered over the gold wire rim of his spectacles. “Do you know who that is, Viktor?”
“It’s the Gauleiter.”
“Do you see the crimson collar patches on his coat? He is a leader of the Reich. A man like that reports directly to people like Himmler and Göring. What is he doing here?”
“Seiz brought him,” Fr. Viktor said.
“But why would he bring such a high-ranking official here to the Miesbergkloster?”
“He’s up to something. Whatever the party wants, it must be real important.”
“A Gauleiter.” Fr. Paul drew in a hissing breath. “I fear this may be it, mein Freund. You may not be lighting any more cigars in celebration.”
Gauleiter Wächtler glared as the two priests exchanged conspiratorial whispers. Fr. Viktor smiled back affably. “Seiz told me to join our brethren for prayer. Plainly, he doesn’t want us meddling in his affairs. Not that I’m asking for an invitation.” He jerked his head toward the corridor.
“Come on, Paul. Let’s meddle.”
“May the dear Lord be with us.” The Austrian priest crossed himself and followed.
Fr. Viktor proceeded in a leisurely stroll behind their visitors. Seiz led Gauleiter Wächtler and Bürgermeister Braun into the residence wing, his arm curling around a sheaf of detailed notes he had written during his previous tour. Three brown uniforms towered starkly against stucco walls of tranquil white; sharp footfalls invaded the hallowed silence. “Herr Gauleiter, allow me to present the Miesbergkloster,” the NSV director announced, his smooth baritone voice echoing along the hall. “This building has exactly twenty-five monastic cells, one refectory, one kitchen, three recreation rooms, three bathrooms, two parlors, one choir room, and one library. Only six residents are here now, but this place can accommodate more people than that. It is a woefully inefficient use of space, as you can plainly see.”
A series of arched wooden doors stretched along their left and right. Seiz opened one and stepped aside for the German governor and the mayor. “The sleeping rooms are comparable to what you see here,” Seiz continued. “Four by six meters in space. They are all sparingly furnished. A chair, a desk, a bed.” He pursed his lips at the room’s only embellishment, a wooden crucifix. “The facilities are very modern, with cold and hot running water—in every room! This amenity is rarely found in the countryside.”
Fr. Viktor hovered outside the doorway, his eyes sliding right to trade looks with Fr. Paul.
“This is an inspection?”
Blinded by Seiz’s machinations, he relied upon powers of observation that fastened on minutiae. The Gauleiter flipped light switches on and off, on and off, testing light fixtures. Braun opened and shut windows, admiring the quality of their construction. The next time Fr. Viktor wrote his father superior in Pittsburgh, he would decline from mentioning this visit. He loathed the prospect of reading another letter enumerating the reasons why his mission in Germany amounted to a fool’s errand.
His attention narrowed upon Gauleiter Wächtler. Lips curled in disgust, the German governor waved toward a crucifix. “Are those things in every room?”
“The crosses will be taken down.” Seiz swept back into the corridor, passing both priests without venturing eye contact.
Fr. Paul pinched and adjusted his spectacles. “Why should these people decide what we do in our monastery?”
“Indeed.” The provincial glared at the back of Seiz’s dark, sleekly groomed head. Inspection? He mulled. Oh, you devil.
“This monastery was constructed eight years ago?” Gauleiter Wächtler’s gravel voice boomed along the corridor.
Seiz whirled on his heel.
“That’s right.” Fr. Viktor followed an impulse to assert himself as master of the house. “Not even gold can buy this monastery,” he said, glancing in Seiz’s direction. “There’s too much love in it. Its very foundations are a symbol of the friendship our religious community shares with the people of Schwarzenfeld.
“Eight years ago.” Gauleiter Wächtler fingered swastika medals pinned to his tunic. “At that time, our Fuhrer was just beginning to get Germany back in order.
“Yes, those were such desperate days,” Fr. Viktor agreed. The Depression had depleted America, yet its impact back home paled in comparison to the destitution that had coursed through Germany. The pain had called him and Fr. Valentin to this land. They were Passionists: in a suffering face they beheld the visage of Christ.
“And how did the party let you build a monastery when the Catholic Church is forbidden from opening new institutions here?” the Gauleiter asked.
“How?” Fr. Viktor rubbed his chin, reflecting. “Back when we were in the planning stages, there was a slight misunderstanding. The party knew we had a construction project, but somehow—and I really have no idea how it happened—it escaped their attention that we were building a monastery. They thought we were building a residence house.” The provincial cringed at the memory. “They nearly shut us down—until we reminded them that Herr Hitler made it mandatory for German men to find employment after the Depression. So many people needed work, and in a place this small, well, opportunities were hard to find.”
“Pater Provincial Koch hired every unemployed laborer in Schwarzenfeld and the surrounding areas to build this monastery,” Fr. Paul interjected with reverence. “He rescued this entire town from poverty.”
“The unemployment rate in the Oberpfalz was nil compared to the rest of Germany. The party had to let us finish construction.” Fr. Viktor grinned, remembering the lovely cigar he had enjoyed after the incident. An American adage shot through his mind: fight fire with fire. In his experience, that logic worked for the Reich. The survival of his province depended upon it.
Gauleiter Wächtler grunted, though he also smiled faintly. Fr. Viktor interpreted the sound as a contemptuous laugh.
“So, you put bread and meat on many tables,” the German governor observed. “That would explain why you are popular in these parts . . . Provinsche.” Wächtler swiveled back toward Seiz, who shot a glare in Fr. Viktor’s direction before swaggering off to conduct an “inspection” of the monastery kitchen.
Provinsche. Fr. Viktor found the moniker endearing, but parishioners never used it in his presence. The Germans considered it rude to address a revered figure by his nickname, and he knew enough to perceive the governor’s use of it as a slight. Fr. Viktor quelled a compulsion to make a pithy remark about “der Hitler.”
The Gauleiter’s tour stretched into an hour-long visit. Fr. Viktor followed the procession through a methodically selected chain of rooms, including a kitchen redolent with the aromas of coffee and eggs that his German brethren proudly scrambled in “American style,” a second-floor vestibule decked with Marian statuettes that elicited another scowl from Gauleiter Wächtler, and a recreation room that Seiz recommended for office space.
At length the tour ended at the Miesbergkloster veranda, where their visitors stopped to admire a stunning panorama. Fr. Viktor tugged his mantle closer and stepped outside, reveling in mild spring sunlight. Cumulous clouds billowed overhead. Their shadows slid lazily over a rolling landscape studded by church steeples, quaint Bavarian homesteads, and the Naab River’s meandering silver line. Oh, he loved this place. Even when she lay shrouded in the grays of early spring, the Oberpfalz entranced him. More than that, Germany exuded a sense of age that stirred his blood. The Miesbergkirche, the hilltop pilgrimage church towering beside his monastery, had been constructed two centuries ago, and by European standards, she was still a child. Schwarzenfeld’s founders had established the riverside village back in the year 1015. This town is 926 years old! The thought staggered him.
“Look at our visitors,” he said to Fr. Paul. “They see the beauty of nature, and the bones of time. Yet they feel no awe for the Creator who made it.”
Fr. Paul meditated. “Perhaps one must allow the Presence to exist within oneself first, before he can rejoice in His blessings.”
“True.”
“These men. That Gauleiter especially.”
“What about them?”
“When you look into their eyes, Viktor, what do you see?”
“Mm. That stare,” he muttered. “Sometimes I wonder if the party doesn’t appoint leaders based on that alone.”
A breezy silence stretched for a moment. “The light of the body is the eye,” Fr. Paul quoted, his serene voice drifting across a gulf of contemplation. “If therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!”
“Matthew six, verses twenty-two and twenty-three,” Fr. Viktor said. “I always liked that one.”
“I have been looking for that light in the eyes of these men,” the Austrian mused. “It disturbs me greatly to see it so dim—even non-existent.”
Fr. Viktor thought of bowed heads and rosary beads, the devotion of parishioners kneeling in the pews of his church. Keep that light kindled in this dark land. Amen, Lord—but what do I do about these men?
His visitors loitered around a slender railing that overlooked the monastery’s freshly tilled gardens. Gauleiter Wächtler peered southeast, where red-tiled rooftops sprouted in dense clusters at the Miesberg’s base.
“Small town,” the German governor commented.
“And it is quiet,” Seiz pointed out eagerly, his neck craned to evaluate Wächtler’s reactions. “It is far from the air-raids.”
The Gauleiter’s iron gaze gravitated in Fr. Viktor’s direction. “You may have German heritage, Provinsche,” he said, peering down his long nose, “and your Hochdeutsch is impeccable, but you were not born in this country. Your accent is as clear as day.”
“Yes. I was born in America.”
“What part?” Wächtler interrogated.
“I was born in the north, in a state called Pennsylvania. I come from the city of Sharon, if you want to know. It’s a coal and steel town, and not much bigger than Schwarzenfeld.”
The Gauleiter drew back in dismay. “But why are you here? It is against the law for a foreigner to preach to German citizens.”
“Oh, I have dual citizenship,” Fr. Viktor assured. “I’m an American and a German.”
“You have papers to prove this?”
“Of course.”
Fr. Viktor briefly summarized his mission to found a branch of the Passionist Order in Germany and Austria. He noted Seiz nervously flicking a lighter, his hand shielding a cigarette from the wind. “We have another monastery in the Austrian Alps, and it turns out I lived there just long enough to meet the residency requirement for Austrian citizenship. Because of the annexation into Germany, any Austrian citizen is automatically a citizen of the Reich. Do you want to see my papers? It’s no problem. They’re in my office, I can go get them.”
“Hm.” The Gauleiter’s eyes dropped to a black and white medal pinned to Fr. Viktor’s cassock. “You Jesuits,” he muttered.
“We are Passionists, Herr Gauleiter,” Fr. Paul corrected, his pride in their order overcoming the dread inspired by crimson collar patches. “We are monks of the Passionist Order. Did you see the symbol that we all wear on our robes?” Hastening from the veranda’s colonnaded recess, he pointed to the medal upon his chest. Jesu XPI Passio. The letters and three nails lay inscribed within a heart, and the heart itself was crowned by a cross.
Fr. Viktor smiled; his friend intended no disrespect to Jesuits. Each religious harbored a stalwart devotion for his order. Gauleiter Wächtler deigned to glance at Fr. Paul’s medal before turning back to the galloping panorama of the Oberpfalz.
“Well, now that the tour is over,” Fr. Viktor said, maintaining a neutral tone, “why don’t you tell us why we’ve had the honor of this visit today?”
Intuition told him that this question might trigger a decisive moment for the men in his presence. Observing from the veranda’s shadows, Frs. Viktor and Paul watched Seiz position himself in Gauleiter Wächtler’s line of sight and pause in anticipation. The NSV director tapped ashes off his cigarette. Fr. Viktor’s nose twitched at the dry, faintly sour scent of Turkish tobacco. Gauleiter Wächtler strolled several paces while considering the monastery’s sunlit edifice. At last, his grizzled head bobbed in satisfaction. Yes, Fr. Viktor thought. Something has been settled. Their decision made, the guests proceeded to stroll about the monastery grounds. The provincial beckoned to Seiz, who eyed him shrewdly. He lingered.
“Either the Reich is changing its procedures, which I sincerely doubt,” Fr. Viktor said, “or this was no inspection.”
Elation lighting his features, Seiz exhaled a triumphant plume of smoke. “You always were a clever man, Pater.”
“You want to meet before church?”
“Why?”
“Confession. I hear it’s good for the soul.”
The party member laughed. “I put my faith in Germany.”
“Of course you do.”
“All right. Let me explain what is going on, and fortunately, we have no need for a confessional.” Seiz took a long drag from the cigarette, mustering himself.
“The State is taking possession of this building, your monastery. The church and sacristies will remain under your control.” He gestured toward the cemetery. “Your province co-founder, Pater Valentin Lenherd, died last month. Your novices were drafted into our army. Your American brethren have been sent back home. Except for the two of you, and four German nationals too old for military service, this building is practically empty. The NSV can put it to better use, namely, as a boarding school to protect German children living in cities threatened by air raids. You have a monastery in Austria that accommodates twenty-five people, and at this time it houses only seven. You will transfer your belongings from this monastery to that one, and leave this building to us. In fact,” Seiz considered his watch, all business, “I am sorry to tell you this, but you don’t have much time to evacuate. The Gauleiter wants this monastery in our hands by noon tomorrow.”
Fr. Paul recoiled. “Noon tomorrow?”
“I suggest you start packing.”
“A boarding school?” Fr. Viktor said.
“Yes, a boarding school,” Seiz confirmed. “Do you see, Pater? Do you finally see? As I have tried to tell you many times before, our intentions are charitable.”
The provincial glanced at a swastika band clutching a brown sleeve. “Right,” he murmured. “And the children you house here. What will they learn?”
The party member frowned. “Well, they will learn the history of our people, of course. And why they should be proud of their German heritage. The girls will learn the domestic skills that are needed to run a household and raise children. Like your church, the Reich approves of large German families. Boys will learn the meaning of duty and—”
“And what about religion?” Fr. Viktor broke in.
“Excuse me?”
“Can we teach them more than blood and soil? Will you let us look after their spiritual welfare, and explain how we are all bound together by the pain of the human condition?”
“Can you—” Seiz flinched. He flicked ashes from the cigarette. “Pater. As I have told you already, my concern is charity. I care only that these children have food on their plates and a roof over their heads, and what they learn is . . . that is up to the Reich. I have no say in that matter.”
“I see.” Fr. Viktor leaned against the railing, his elbow resting upon an upraised knee. He mustered himself, trusting to faith.
“Well, Herr Amtsleiter, I’m sorry to say you’ve been wasting the Gauleiter’s valuable time here today.”
“Wasting it?” Seiz said. “How?”
“You can’t take over this monastery, mein Herr. We have orders from the cardinal of Munich to stay.”
The party member flicked ashes again. “Faulhaber?”
“I see you’ve heard of him.” Fr. Viktor suppressed a smile: every National Socialist in Bavaria knew Cardinal Michael von Faulhaber. A vehement critic of the Reich, Faulhaber was notorious for delivering pungent homilies from the pulpit of St. Michael’s Cathedral in Munich. “Cardinal Faulhaber and I go way back,” he continued while the party member studied the shine of his boots. “It’s no secret that the Reich has been confiscating monasteries left and right. His office is negotiating with the Interior Ministry about this matter. Of course, we share your concern for the children. I know you’re a persistent man, I’m sure you’ll find a place for them.”
Seiz watched him steadily. “You would put your orders above the welfare of German children?”
Fr. Viktor blew a sharp sigh. “Look, I sympathize with your problem, but I’ve taken a vow of poverty. I don’t own this building. It belongs to our order. The mortgage is owned by the provincial of our mother province in America. You want to buy it? You have to call him.”
“You misunderstand, Pater. The Gauleiter is involved now. I don’t have to call anyone to acquire your monastery.”
In his peripheral vision, Fr. Viktor noted Fr. Paul glancing back and forth.
“Okay, fine.” The provincial tugged his leather belt, drawing himself up. “Go ahead. Throw us out and see what happens. Our American mother province will hear about it, that’s for sure. And the next time Faulhaber visits Rome, the Vatican will get a real earful about the Reich kicking us out on Holy Thursday. Holy Week, of all times! Now, what do you think the pope will say about your Fuhrer after that? Honestly, Herr Amtsleiter.” He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “And aside from the terrific scandal you’ll cause over this matter, I’m sure you’ll make quite an impression on the large Catholic population living in this region. I doubt you’ll find them in a very generous mood the next time you send the Hitler Youth around to collect donations for the Winter Charity drive.”
The party despised public relations flaps, especially ones that rippled into international consciousness. His jaw flexing, Seiz lifted his head and puffed on a cigarette smoked down to a nub. “There are negotiations, you said?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“With the Interior Ministry in Munich.”
“That’s right.”
“I will inquire about these orders.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
“Perhaps Gauleiter Wächtler will extend your deadline.”
“Perhaps.”
“Heil Hitler.” The party member flung his cigarette into the garden and stalked off. After turning to shoot a glacial stare at Fr. Viktor, he slammed the fence gate behind him.
Fr. Viktor frowned at the cigarette releasing spires of smoke from an asparagus patch. Standing in breathy silence, Fr. Paul watched the Mercedes roll down the hillside with a sulky rumble.
“Viktor?” The Austrian ruffled his thinning shock of gray-brown hair. “Mein Freund?”
“. . . Oh, for Pete’s sake. Orders from the Gauleiter. Noon on Thursday? Party charity my foot!” Fr. Viktor trudged down a short flight of concrete stairs and lumbered through tilled soil. “Steal our monastery and sell it to the Reich—that’s your idea of charity? If you think you’re using my monastery to indoctrinate children, well, you’ve got another thing coming. Go ‘Heil Hitler’ at someone else’s doorstep!” He stooped, retrieving the cigarette. “Yes, Paul?”
“Correct me if I am mistaken. Nothing has been settled with these negotiations. How do you know that Cardinal Faulhaber will prevent the Reich from taking this monastery?”
Fr. Viktor shrugged. “I’m working in the Framework,” he said, using his favorite term for the Lord’s plan. “God provides. Who am I to argue with His mysterious ways?”
“Naturally. But the Amtsleiter may return. If he forces the issue by involving the police, we will be resisting the State itself. Those disputes usually end in the party’s favor.”
“Have faith!” Fr. Viktor said heartily. He pitched the cigarette toward blue sky and rolling hills. “Seiz doesn’t have a prayer’s chance against Faulhaber. I’ll phone his representative and make him aware of this situation. But first, why don’t we celebrate today’s victory with a good cigar?”
