Something Less Than Nothing

by Gerald Budinski

Father Johann Hepfner wrestled with the eiderdown and resigned himself to a banal rack of lumps and tangles. The old clock was like a metronome, whose cadence seemed to sweep the entire room while the radiator groaned and clanked a dirge. The only remedy was to fill the plodding hours with prayer. Orisons for strength and courage, supplications for wisdom, an entire litany for the simple mercy of a few hours of sleep. One prayer would repeatedly intrude and resonate:

"Lord, remove this bitter cup from my lips."

Once he mastered the physical torments, images from that night of shouts and crashes returned to startle him awake. "’Kristallnacht’, the people were calling it, as if it were something quaint and frivolous."

Those were the Bishop’s own words. Father Hepfner was glad that he had gone to see his prelate. It was the proper thing to do, especially with Father Muller being as he was. His Excellency had shared his outrage, told of his own frightening experiences that night, and on the whole seemed to support his speaking out. Yet the sum of all the bishop said had made it harder.

When the bishop had begun to examine the possible consequences, he the bold and righteous Father Hepfner, had vacillated, had bolted for the first possible escape. His Excellency’s reply then blocked all exits.

"All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."

  *  *  *

Midnight: The clock and pipes marching in step. Perhaps time would pass quickly if he reviewed the sermon once again. He would make it as much a part of him as conscience and reason. The effort might make him weary.

The sermon would begin with his recounting of his own experiences that Wednesday night. This would be done without commentary--the things he saw were sermon enough. Then the history of the district--from guildhalls and ghetto to working poor--and how to that very day, neighbor greeted neighbor without a thought to race or creed.

The bishop seemed to have been impressed, nodding at the sermon’s logic in placing the cruel events in context, eagerly anticipating the direction Father Hepfner would take next. He had continued reading aloud.

"And then on Thursday, who came to confession but the usual people, and Saturday as well? An old woman who had said an unkind word to a daughter in-law. Children still fresh from their first communion."

Father Hepfner had paused, distracted by the bishop’s sudden movement. His Excellency had put his hand over his eyes as if he were shielding them from some bright light. Father Hepfner read on.

"No one confessed to destroying property. No one stole. No one beat frail, peaceful men protecting their property or shielding their women from naked shame. No one burned ancient relics that our Lord himself may have revered. And if all of you there were only there to bear witness, then why did no one shout 'stop'? Or even dare to whisper 'shame'?"

From where he was held, he had seen the clothing ripped off a middle-aged woman, then the face of her intervening husband smashed bloody. Suddenly someone shouted a command and the crowd stampeded toward the synagogue. Had he really tried his best to break free? Or was he himself ashamed to be seen among those doing nothing?

"But perhaps the things that were done were not a sin," he continued. "The people who were beaten, vandalized, robbed and shamed were not like us--they were only Jews. Yet were they not people who lived among us, with whom we dealt with every day?

"A man asked the Savior himself, 'Lord, what are the greatest commandments?' And Jesus answered that the first was to love God but the second was to love one’s neighbor as oneself. Next the man asked Him, 'Who is our neighbor?' You all know the story he told. But think of why Jesus thought it important to make the neighbor a Samaritan, representative of a people vilified as a mixed race, a sect mired in heresy? Yet Jesus said that these also are our neighbors to be loved as ourselves. What would Jesus say of the Jews among us today?

"Is the grocer not a neighbor when he keeps prices down during hard times? Or the dentist who interrupts his schedule to ease one’s pain? Why not the butcher who, even in times of scarcity, gets you that special cut for an important anniversary? Why not the old doctor who climbs the stairs to care for your sick child? But of course none of those things have merit because all those foolish people are Jews. This parish has no sin; it contains no neighbors. Let us pray."

Father Hepfner had lowered the trembling pages and looked up at the Bishop, but the latter seemed lost in thought. He had affected the man deeply--his sermon was a success.

The bishop spoke. "It is a marvelous sermon, and let me make it clear from the start that I think you must go ahead with it. But have you thought thoroughly about what will most likely happen to you? Anti-Semitism is a dogma as basic to the party as the Resurrection is for us."

"I have thought it through, Excellency, and I am fully prepared to accept martyrdom." Hepfner had tried a brave laugh but his voice broke. "Like St. Stephen."

"St. Stephen! Perhaps you think they’ll drag you down from the pulpit and into the street to stone you. No, it’s not likely to happen like that. But it’s almost certain you’ll be arrested some time later. Even if you manage to shame the parish momentarily, someone will say something to the wrong person and that will be it. You should be prepared to be questioned and perhaps treated roughly." The bishop sighed and stared at him for a moment, before slowly lowering his eyes. Then in a different voice he said, "But I wager you’ll be out in a month or so."

Now Father Hepfner felt ashamed of his arrogance in comparing himself to the first martyr. But he had seen the sudden violence of which the mob was capable.

When the first shop windows had been broken by some thugs, the scattered shouts had merged and erupted like the roar of a blast furnace and the milling crowds had suddenly turned as one and poured into the shops like a tidal wave: smashing, grabbing, knocking down anyone who dared stand in their way. A big man--he'd known him vaguely--had grabbed him and pulled him into an alley and held him there. "Father, it’s best that you do not get involved in this." But he had still been able see and hear the hatred and the screams.

The bishop had said no mob and martyrdom--at worst only prison, then out in a month or two.

How would that happen? Would he recant, promise to go forth and sin no more? It could be like the Lutheran pastor, Schuman, who was arrested for merely cautioning about the SS program to impregnate willing maidens. The poor pastor also was released after only a month, but he had died within a year--"of natural causes"--according to official reports.

  *  *  *

One a.m.: the clock becomes a whip snapping in a distant room, the groaning pipes are muffled whimpers of despair.

He had told the bishop that he expected to be sent to one of the work camps, where at least he might perform his priestly duties. It was a hopeful thought and his superior did not dispute it.

"To a work camp," the bishop repeated and seemed lost in thought. Then out of nowhere he said: "I’ve heard that you are popular at St. Hedwig’s, especially for the way you support our venerable Father Muller."

Father Hepfner had said "yes" with false modesty, although he knew he was perceived as a shrill and ugly bumpkin. If the parishioners liked him at all it was because of the way he cared for the old man. Some young ones admired him for putting something over on the hierarchy.

"And how is dear old Father Muller?"

"I’m afraid he’s feeling his age," was all Father Hepfner dared admit. "But he still says the Mass perfectly and gets around quite well."

"And you’ve discussed your sermon with him?"

"Pastor Muller declines to critique my sermons. He prefers to leave me on my own."

Lies--to a bishop. Not only was he not saint and martyr, but sinner as well. The bishop wasn’t stupid; he had probably guessed the truth.

"Well, it is possible the parish could be shut down. As time goes on, I’m sure many will be shut down. This country is more than a third Catholic, and since we've united with Austria, much more than that. Yet they seem to be hacking away, getting bolder. I’m sure some day I may wind up in prison myself."

Just then the bishop's servant, a sour old woman, had barged in to clear the tea service. The bishop had dismissed her for the night but she had still been somewhere lurking when Father Hepfner had read his sermon. They'd waited until they heard the outside door close; then Father Hepfner spoke.

"Dear Lord, I hadn’t thought about all that. Perhaps I should reconsider." He had leaned forward expectantly--would he be reprieved?--but the bishop had just looked at him with sad, moist eyes that suddenly dried and ignited into rage.

"No!" The bishop had pounded his desk hard enough to rattle the heavy iron lamp that sat upon it. "A spontaneous demonstration against the crimes of the Jews, they call it. As if that should make all Germans feel proud. You are right to chide the parishioners and not the Party. The greatest sin would be for us to let them believe they can do these things and still be on the path to heaven, that they have God’s blessing. And if someone informs, let it be. The church could use a bit of persecution right now. Let the churches be shut down if need be. Let them be boarded up and seen as monuments and testimony that they have not triumphed."

That was when His Excellency had remembered the quote about evil and doing nothing.

"So then you will speak out against Kristallnacht as well?" Father Hepfner had asked, brightening.

The bishop's expression had changed again. After a time he'd sighed and said with frustration:

"Alas, Father Hepfner, a bishop is not as free as a small parish vicar. When I preach it is considered a statement of church policy. I intend to join you in this, but first must clear it with the Archbishop and because of the Concordat, the papal legate must be consulted as well. But I’m sure both Eminences feel as we do."

The bishop had stood and led him to the large crucifix on the wall where they'd knelt and prayed together aloud: a decade of the rosary, the Apostles' Creed. The crucifix was large, a full meter from top to bottom. The image of the impaled Savior was horribly graphic. The body twisted unnaturally, as if still now reeling from the agony of His wounds. Most disturbing were the eyes that were almost too alive, pleading to an unresponsive God somewhere far above. In spite of himself Father Hepfner had found himself in his own private prayer.

"Father, let this cup pass away from me, but not my will but Thine be done."

The bishop had ended with his own special prayer.

"Lord, grant this boy the strength to carry out what needs to be done. And please, Oh Lord, let his sacrifice bear fruit."

  *  *  *

Two a.m.: the clock ticking, rapping, smashing doors. He tried to convince himself that his sleeplessness was a good thing; a way to make the time toward crisis seem interminable. He allowed a pleasant thought to form. It would be so nice to have a conversation with the bishop under ordinary conditions, perhaps taking him to visit his own village where they could walk the mountain trails and discuss nature or the arts. They would dine with his parents, share a bottle of Franconian wine.

His father curses the dealings of a Jewish merchant. The bishop hands a cup of wine to Father Hepfner, while his father laughs at the irony of it all. The wine becomes a foaming brine and the solace of the dream is shattered in rage. Why will the bishop not take the cup himself?

Nearly six! Somewhere in his tossing and turning Gethsemane there must have been a blackness that consumed three hours. And yet there was no refreshment from it. The final half hour torments him with images of himself trembling on the pulpit, unable to speak, then fainting and falling into the grasping arms of his angry flock. The alarm!

Time--now becomes a maddening rush to prepare Father Muller for the seven thirty and his own high Mass at ten. He washes and dresses, having difficulty finding items he normally takes without thinking. Then rushing downstairs to check on Katya the housekeeper, who is late arriving, and soon it is six thirty with no Father Muller in evidence. He begins to climb the stairs with pounding heart but meets the old man coming down. Who are you?--his pastor’s eyes demand.

At quarter to seven he is sitting across from the gaunt old man watching him chew the rolls and jam that Katya has brought into the tiny dining room. He himself tries to eat but retches on every bite. His soul cries out a silent prayer:

"Lord, why give me the courage and then deny me strength?"

He brings out his well-fingered sermon and with a pencil tones down some adjectives but finds himself adding more acid further on. He tries a piece of bread and finds that he can now consume it. A good sign--surely from the Lord.

At seven he goes with Father Muller to the vestry and helps him dress for Mass, selecting the liturgically correct color. His pastor would have it perpetual black, even with Advent still being three weeks hence.

When Mass starts, Father Hepfner dares a peek through the vestry door into the church and his anxieties magnify to terror. The small church in its emptiness appears as vast as a grand cathedral with pews enough for thousands. The pastor’s "Ad Atari Dei" echoes on cold canyon walls. Wooden acres between the scattered faithful foreshadow the multitude that will be judging Father Hepfner's tirade. At ten o’clock there will be a choir and organ to dramatize the onslaught.

The early flock is the usual sprinkling of the lonely and elderly, but near the side entrance is a group of young boys in uniform. In years past they would have been Boy Scouts preparing for a late autumn hike. Now they and their brutal-looking leader wear armbands with the twisted cross. It seems prudent to use this opportunity for prayer, so Father Hepfner places the kneeler in the vestry so he can observe Father Muller’s entire mass; something he has seldom done.

As always, the sermon is based on the Good Shepherd parable and an experience Father Muller had in the War. Father Hepfner sees the two altar boys exchange smiles and women in the front row do the same. He has always found the parable to be a trivial lesson--risking all to save one sinner. He tries to convince himself that on this day it has a message especially for him: you can save one parish, even if all of Germany is plunging toward hell. For one prayerful interlude, Father Hepfner does believe he can still save these souls.

The pastor performs the Mass without a flaw, like a phonograph record stuck in one interminable groove. But the old man has always been slow and when the Mass finally ends it is already eight thirty. Father Hepfner has a mere seventy-five minutes to prepare.

There is a short time to calm himself in the dining room while Father Muller, as always, consumes a full breakfast after mass. Father Hepfner attempts a piece of kuchen and fails, but manages to drink a coffee rich with cream. At nine thirty he quickly rereads his sermon for the twentieth time, and stands up to start for the vestry--just ten meters down the passage to the room at the rear of the church. He hears heavy footsteps and nearly falls back into his chair.

"Father, there is someone in the office who insists on seeing you."

Father Hepfner jerks around in panic, but sees it is only Katya.

"Who is it? Some men, you say?" Had they come for him already? The bishop’s servant must have informed.

"No, it is only Frau Krumplich, but she is very upset. You should hurry."

Krumplich was a brownshirt. Was this a warning?

"I have Mass in less than half an hour. Have her come in here."

He aligns the pages of his sermon and begins to fold them but soon the sound of Katya’s heavy tread becomes a stampede as Frau Krumplich charges into the dining room. She is a dowdy, shapeless woman whose ravaged face and thinning hair add twenty years to the forty she has endured. Father Muller looks up from his breakfast for a moment but the sights and sounds are too vivid to be absorbed.

"Father you must come at once!" Frau Krumplich shouts. "My Dieter is dying and is asking for a priest."

Dieter Krumplich, the drunkard, wife beater, and brawler, is calling for a priest? The same Krumplich who paraded his whore down the Kirchenstrasse on Christmas Eve, and raised his mocking krug of beer to the worshippers across the street? Hepfner looks at the frantic Frau in disbelief.

"A priest? I thought Dieter was an atheist."

"He always said that, but now he needs a priest. They say he is dying-- any time now. Doktor Bernbaum warned him that one more binge and his liver would be gone and still he wouldn’t listen. Now it’s been destroyed."

Hepfner looks at the advancing clock and then at Father Muller. The old man could perform last rites--he had done it with competence just a month ago. Just more reciting of words, more emulating the proper tone. He could still do that well.

"I am sorry, but I can’t now. I have Mass in just twenty minutes. Father Muller can go with you."

Frau Krumplich begins to weep and wail, then falls to the floor hugging the young priest’s legs. She shouts, "No, it must be you. He asked for you and with Father Muller it might not even count. Dieter needs to confess and be absolved. He says I am a saint for putting up with him and he wants the priest who saved me."

For Father Hepfner, it is as if a light has flared down from heaven: "Who among you would not leave the rest of his flock, to seek out the one lamb who was lost?"

Father Hepfner takes Frau Krumplich gently by the shoulders to help her rise, then calls to Father Muller.

"Father, can you say another Mass today?"

Father Muller looks up, mouth open as if in pain, eyes darting here and there. It had been cruel to add the trial of confusion to this already forlorn mind.

"What?"

"I said that it is nearly time for Mass."

"Of course," says the old priest and he stands up and stares down the hall toward the church.

Father Hepfner goes into the hall and fetches his coat and the special black bag from the closet, then turns to Katya. "Frau Pawlowski, please go with Father Muller and make sure he wears the green and not the black. And remind him it is a high Mass. He’ll be all right--he just sang one on All Hallows."

"Yes Father," says Katya smiling with moist eyes.

Yes, it was a very moving moment, Father Hepfner thinks. This Krumplich would surely be condemned to hell fire if he did not tend to him. How many others would there be like him in the terrible times ahead? He goes to Frau Krumplich who was already by the door.

"We can go in the car, but you must show me the way."

The pages of Father Hepfner’s sermon remain where he left them on the dining room table.

The End

Something Less Than Nothing © 2004 by Gerald Budinski

Mr. Budinski is a recently retired engineer who is now devoting his energies to nontechnical works. This story about a priest's moral dilemma during the Holocaust had been waiting years to be set down. Read another story by Gerald Budinski: Of Swans and Frogs and Princes Charming.

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