Sometimes I Write Things

The Beginning of Life

Schöneberg, April 8, 1945

Twelve years of chaos, seven of war. His eyes searched out the window in silence. Ever since the day when Death had knocked on every door, it had never been as it was. There was something apocalyptic about the scene, echoes of what would one day come and the leader who would guide the nations towards folly.

His stomach twinged with hunger as he considered the war-torn land, laid barren by the bombings and the robbing of its men. He could still taste the fading flavor of the potato-salad and bread that had once nourished him, if only a little. He was grateful for that and for the hope that was within him. It was Sunday, a week past Easter, and he had maintained, as he always did, a healthy form of optimism.

The light of the morning brought with it the sound of the coming artillery, the foreign advance breaking through the defensive lines as surely as the sun's warm rays broke through the grayness of the clouds to cast their glorious brightness. Soon it would all be over.

He closed his eyes to the world and thanked God for His answer to the prayers which he had never wished to pray. The destruction of his nation was not a cause for celebration, but the eradication of evil was another matter. They had to be punished. Their sin had mounted to the Heavens and come before God for recompense. The blood of the earth which they had spilled called up to God for vengeance and innocence itself cried out for wrath.

It would be a blessed thing to see his own surrender. The lines were drawn up long ago, and he his side had chosen: the salvation of the world for the destruction of his nation. For, such was the judgement of God. Now, if only the question could be answered of whether he would live to see it. It seemed almost irresponsible to wonder, but he could not have helped it where he stood. Freedom was near, no matter how it might find him. Death was but an end to dying, which all the world was already, anyway. But freedom? That was something different, something sacred, revealed only in God.

"Well, Pastor, how about a sermon?" prodded the proud voice of an Englishman with his spirits high.

His eyes sprang open in alarm. Had he just asked a sermon? His heart quivered to think that he might preach again. How could it be allowed him? He drew in breath deep to his lungs and trembled as he turned to face the upright man with the mustache and monocle.

"Dear Best, I couldn't possibly." He spoke with great remorse, his heart turning within him for pain. In truth, there was nothing that he would have wanted better, but he was sensitive to the lives of the others and would by no means force them.

"Oh, hogwash! Come on, Pastor! It's Sunday, and we could all go for a service! I may not be an especially religious man, but I can say that it has been far too long since we've had one—" he raised his voice and gave an accentuated nod towards the godless Russian in the corner "—especially Kokorin here!"

The young man laughed to spite his soul and his dark eyes, so depressed and tormented, flashed with a divine spark of light, if only for an instant. "I'd hear it!"

The others answered him the same and insisted until he had agreed with eager heart to take up the old familiar task. He wrapped his Bible tight in his hands and stepped out in front of them. The group of prisoners waited in anticipatory silence as he tapped his fingers on the leather front and prayed so only God could hear. It had all become so strangely foreign to him. It had been so very long. In some ways, it felt, a lifetime.

In truth, he was happy beyond measure, but he knew not what to say. Still, he knew that this was from God, a gift — one way or the other. It had been a silent prayer of his, a desperate wish, to preach just one more time. He had thought the chance was lost for him. There had been the order against speaking and then the drafting of the churchmen, and when he had made up his mind to work for the conspiracy, to him, that was the end. Who would hear an assassin preach, a traitor to the crown? Who could hear a man speak of love and peace who had sought to take another man's life, even the life of a tyrant, desperate for blood? It had been far outside of his hopes that he should be given the chance by men, much less by God. Yet, there he stood.