My Dearest Dietrich, page 3
He cleared his throat, realizing she expected him to say something along the lines of polite conversation. “It’s … um … very nice to meet you. Again.”
She held out her hand, though it, too, was a bit muddy. He took it anyway, unable to unglue his gaze from her face. She appeared recovered from her earlier outburst and gazed back, unblinking. Her fingers clasped his, not hesitating or limp, but warm and decisive, and it was probably longer than necessary before he found his senses and pulled away.
Maria faced her grossmutter. “Why did you not tell me Pastor Bonhoeffer was arriving this afternoon?”
Ruth laughed again, as if the whole situation were as entertaining as a comic opera. “Why? Would you have made more of an effort in your appearance?”
Maria shrugged, a flash of laughter in her gaze. “Oh probably. It’s a good thing I refrained from dragging Friedrich Schiller in here by his ear. He’s a good deal muddier than I at the moment.” She grinned, as if accustomed to giving her grossmutter what for.
“Why don’t you go and change, Maria.” Ruth inclined her head toward the door.
“Of course.” Maria turned her attention back to him, a flush suffusing her cheeks. “My apologies for my sudden entrance, Pastor Bonhoeffer. It’s a habit of mine while here at Klein-Krössin.”
He couldn’t help but smile—nein, grin. It loosed something inside him, giving into the impulsive urge that made his lips tug upward. “It’s quite all right, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. It was a good attempt you made, trying to help Greta.”
“Even if it didn’t work out the way I wanted. But as Goethe says, ‘He who goes not forward, goes backward.’” With a little wave, she turned and left the room. Dietrich stared after her, this muddy, Goethe-quoting girl who’d swept into the room, disordering it—and him—in a matter of seconds.
Once Dietrich resumed his seat, Ruth began, “You must excuse my granddaughter. I realize now that I neglected to tell her you were arriving this afternoon. She’s so high-spirited, that one. If she weren’t leaving tomorrow, I fear your days here would be anything but peaceful.”
Dietrich held up a hand. If he let himself listen to more of Ruth’s elaborations on her granddaughter, he would be foolish enough to admit just how diverting he’d found the past moments of conversation. He produced a properly pastoral, though entirely truthful, reply. “I admire anyone seeking to defend the defenseless. Even if she did go about it in a rather … interesting manner.”
Ruth laughed. “That’s one thing our Maria is. Interesting. She just graduated from school, you know. Elisabeth von Thadden’s academy in Wieblingen. I expect they tempered her antics somewhat. But she’ll be company for the both of us tonight. Now, if you’d like to bring your cases in from the car, I can show you to your usual room.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself.” Dietrich stood. “I hope I’ve stayed here often enough to dispense with the formalities. You rest here, and I’ll see to my own luggage.”
Ruth acquiesced, and Dietrich left the room. As he collected his bags and carried them upstairs, he couldn’t deny the smile that crossed his face at the thought of an evening spent in the company of a fraülein who got covered in mud while defending little girls and sassed her grossmutter with laughter in her eyes.
Well, she’d certainly presented herself as a grand, grown-up lady. All elegant attire and polite how-do-you-dos.
Maria’s cheeks still flamed with mortification. She’d embarrassed herself in front of Pastor Bonhoeffer as a child. Now she had to go and repeat the mistake.
She gave a critical glance at her reflection in the guest bedroom mirror. Mud no longer speckled her nose, thank goodness. But her face was still round, her hair such a straight, unremarkable shade of blondish-brown. At least the lavender dress with its white lace collar was presentable. And she’d managed to braid her hair and coil it into a bun, the way her friend Doris always styled hers. Of course, forever-daring Doris had since bobbed her own effortlessly curly locks.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, Maria. This is your grossmutter and her theologian friend. Pastor Bonhoeffer’s no American film star.
Nein, but there was something … interesting about him. Different. She’d noticed it, even as a girl. And when he’d greeted her this afternoon, with that half smile playing across his features …
You’re being a dummkopf, Maria. Pastor Bonhoeffer has to be over thirty-five.
And a thoroughgoing academic in the bargain. The history Grossmutter once relayed to her recalled itself to mind. He’d earned his doctorate in theology at the age of twenty-one and gone on to pastor in Spain, complete a postdoctoral degree, study in America, lecture at Berlin University, and actively participate in maintaining ecumenical communication between foreign churches. After the Führer attempted to dissolve any church not consistent with National Socialist ideology, Pastor Bonhoeffer became one of the foremost leaders in the Confessing Church—a group that fought desperately both to counter the false teachings of the Reich Church and to keep alive a church founded on Scripture’s doctrine rather than Herr Hitler’s. He’d taken advantage of the isolated backcountry of Pomerania to train young pastors in the truth of the Bible instead of the widely accepted heresy of Hitler’s Reich Church—an illegal practice that could have been shut down by the Gestapo at any time. Eventually that was what had happened.
Ja, the man kept a hectic schedule. And was, come to think of it, probably older than thirty-five.
Her grossmutter’s connection with Pastor Bonhoeffer had come about when he’d transferred his group of young Confessing Church pastors-in-training to a rambling manor house called Finkenwalde, near Grossmutter’s second home in the town of Stettin. The two formed an instant bond forged by similar ideas. Grossmutter consequently took up regular attendance at the Finkenwalde chapel. She’d seized every opportunity to bring along her many grandchildren, which had led to “the confirmation class incident.” Maria winced.
Flicking a final glance at her appearance and dismissing her thoughts with as much haste, she smoothed down the front of her dress and made her way downstairs, careful not to skip—a rather bad habit of hers.
Pastor Bonhoeffer stood in the parlor, hands behind his back, gaze on the window.
He turned at her entrance. Doris would probably call what he did next a “double take.” Had she altered her appearance so drastically he didn’t recognize her? She hadn’t been covered in that much mud.
Because he couldn’t possibly be looking at her the way men did at Doris. They always stared at her friend with unabashed admiration. Those same men usually spared Maria all of three seconds of their attention.
Since he stared at her, she decided to peruse him. Light blond hair. Dark gray suit and navy pinstripe tie, his tall, solid frame filling the well-made coat. To be honest, he didn’t look at all like a stodgy theologian, but rather like the sort of man it would be difficult to best on a soccer field. Though his gold-rimmed glasses were perhaps at variance to that, giving him a somewhat scholarly air. Like the kind of man who pondered deep topics one moment, but wasn’t afraid to laugh the next.
“Guten Abend.” He gave a crooked smile.
She dipped a nod. “Likewise. Where is Grossmutter?”
“Having a word with the cook. Apparently, whatever it was we were having for dinner wasn’t put in the oven on time.” He said all of this with a smile, as if minor inconveniences didn’t annoy him in the least.
“So what are we to do till then?” What exactly did theologians do for fun? She wasn’t sure she was up to a discussion of some weighty tome.
His glance—he had such intense, almost startling, blue eyes—turned toward the window again. “It’s nice outside. We could … take a walk?”
“I’m not sure Grossmutter is up to long distances.” Though it did look inviting out of doors. The sun had reached the point where its honey warmth turned to streaks of gold and umber. And she could smell the clean sweetness of the air coming in from the partially open window.
“She already told me she had other matters to take care of. She said she wasn’t up to much entertaining tonight, but that we were to join her for dinner in an hour or so and occupy ourselves until then.”
“So she suggested just we two go?” Maria couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. So like Grossmutter to give her granddaughter the company of a theologian for entertainment. Of course, this was Grossmutter, a born-and-bred Prussian aristocrat who’d named her guest rooms Hope, Joy, and Contentment.
“If you’d rather not …”
“I didn’t say that,” she hastened. Perhaps a bit too quickly. “That is”—she added a smile—“a walk would be lovely.” There. Wouldn’t Doris be proud?
He motioned for her to precede him, and they made their way into the garden—a bower of neat paths, shrubbery, and blossoms in bloom. War or no war, Grossmutter loved her flowers. She’d attempted to pass the interest on to her granddaughter, but even now, Maria couldn’t tell the difference between one variety and another. Except that some were purple, others red, some smelled better than the rest, and whenever she gathered a rose—her favorite—she invariably pricked her finger in the process.
He fell into step beside her, hands behind his back. “So did you ever take confirmation classes?”
She nodded. “A year later. Not with anyone as well-known as you, of course. I think Grossmutter still cringes upon remembrance of the occasion. Her twelve-year-old granddaughter making an idiot out of herself in front of the celebrated Pastor Bonhoeffer.” She gave a rueful smile. “I’m glad I can’t recall all the stupid things I said.”
“I don’t remember anyone making an idiot out of themselves. Except, perhaps me.” His smile was earnest. “As I recall, some of your answers to the questions I posed were quite interesting.”
“I can assure you I’ve learned a few things since then. Although you probably couldn’t tell, based on my performance this afternoon.” She picked a tiny purple flower, twirling it in her fingers.
“Really, Fräulein von Wedemeyer. Depreciation isn’t becoming. I thought what you did today was … very fine.” He met her gaze, and she marveled again at the depth of his. Full of purpose, clarity, and, even rarer, hope. These days, hope seemed to be more rationed than kaffee and sugar, despite the impassioned speeches people made on the radio and the lavish victory parades they threw.
Pastor Bonhoeffer had always been different. She remembered the earnest way he preached from Sunday services at Finkenwalde. Once, rather bored by the lengthy sermon, she’d sat absolutely still and counted how many times he said the word God. Sixty-eight in all. Of course, following lunch that afternoon, that same serious pastor had proceeded to cheerfully trounce everyone at table tennis. She’d always been too intimidated to play.
She tilted her head to look at him. How different he seemed now, simply a man walking beside her instead of the great pastor in the pulpit. And she, no longer the little girl relegated to playing with her brothers and sisters, could be free to converse with him on equal terms.
Tonight had the texture of hope in it, brought on perhaps by the presence of this man who seemed to emanate it. As if the fragrance in the air and the shades of the sky gave them permission to temporarily forget about all that went on in the world outside Klein-Krössin.
Maybe … even gave a theologian permission to have some fun.
“I’ve never met anyone who’s been to America. What was it like?”
“Who told you I’ve been to America?”
“Grossmutter did. She’s always talking about you.”
“Is she now?” Pastor Bonhoeffer’s gaze flickered with amusement. “Doesn’t that get rather dull?”
He was teasing her. Maria grinned. “Ja. It does rather.”
He chuckled. “I’m sorry I’m not a very interesting person.”
“Oh, but you are,” she hastened. “Your trip to America interests me a great deal. What did you do there?” She couldn’t help the burning curiosity. Though most would think it unpatriotic to be so interested in a country that fought against their own, fascination filled her whenever she heard the name.
“Well, I studied.” Their steps slowed, until the pace they kept could hardly be called a pace at all. “At Union Theological Seminary.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
He hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. “It was different. Of course, that’s to be expected, considering they are separated from us by an entire ocean, speak a different language, and live in very different ways. But as more time went on, I found many things to admire.”
“Did you hear any of their music? Swing, I think they call it?”
She learned then that theologians could do more than smile politely. He grinned like one of Doris’s boyfriends, as if she’d said something altogether delightful.
“Many times. It was all rather … exhilarating. But do you know where I found the music I enjoyed most?”
“Where?” They reached a small stone bench, and sat down at almost exactly the same time.
“There was this church I attended. Abyssinian Baptist. Church in America is an entirely different experience than here in Germany. At least at that church it was. The rest of them, well, most of what I heard could hardly be called a sermon at all. But there …” His words trailed away, and he gave a self-conscious shrug. “You don’t want to hear all of this, I’m sure.”
“Oh, but I do. Tell me about it.” Honestly, there was something very attractive about conversing with someone who had done and been to places she’d only heard of. Someone who knew so much.
“I think it had a lot to do with the excitement of the congregation. People looked forward to coming; it wasn’t just something they did for social reasons. And the preaching. It was there that I learned, perhaps for the very first time, what it was to be not just a theologian but an actual Christian. Someone who took the gospel out of dusty pages and ancient cathedrals and applied it to day-to-day life and everyday people, while still maintaining the truth of that gospel without attempting to dilute it into something weak and popular.” A fire of enthusiasm lit his eyes, and he leaned toward her as he spoke.
“We do that at Pätzig, I think. When one of our tenants is ill, we don’t just pray for them at morning devotions, but we take them soup in the afternoon.” She spoke quietly, lowering her gaze to her clasped hands, still holding the limp flower. She let the flower fall to the ground, feeling foolish. He’d probably think her analogy silly.
“Exactly! That’s just my point. It’s taking the Sermon on the Mount and not simply reading it as if it were a novel or any other book but living it out in all circumstances and with all people. Of course we can’t do any of it in our own strength.”
His words … they weren’t theology as usual. Maybe if she listened to him more often, she’d have a greater appreciation of the subject.
The sun had turned to a ball of crimson, a chill finding its way onto the evening air. She must have rubbed her arms to stave it off, as he instantly stood.
“You must be cold wearing that summer dress.” He looked her over, then gave an embarrassed smile, as if he’d admitted something scandalous. Was it the dress? Did he find her pretty in it?
The notion made her stifle a laugh. “You sound like Max. He insists whenever we go on a particularly arduous ride or walk that I wear what he calls ‘proper clothes.’”
He held out his hand. She placed hers in it and stood, her fingers enveloped for the briefest of moments in warmth and strength, leaving a trail that lingered long after he let go.
“You must miss your brother very much.”
Her throat tightened. She pressed her lips together, gazing out at the vista of gently rolling hills of green. Perhaps one could never fully erase reality. There was a war going on, and it was ridiculous to pretend, even for a little while, that there wasn’t. “Ja, I do. But isn’t that what every woman does these days? Misses the men in her life? Living for the mail delivery, wetting her pillow with tears, praying and begging God that they may be restored to her?”
He nodded, slowly. And she wondered vaguely why he was here when most others of his age and abilities were being used in service of Führer and Fatherland.
“I know it’s hard, Fräulein von Wedemeyer. It’s always difficult to be parted from those one loves most.”
She forced back the knot in her throat and gave a small smile. There would be time enough for sorrow and missing in life outside Klein-Krössin. Right now, she wanted to stay in this special world, if only for a few more hours. “I remember from when I was a little girl that you were good at music. Would you … that is, I would like very much to hear some American songs. If you can play any, that is.” The moment after she made her request, hot embarrassment filled her cheeks. Now what would he think of her?
But he only laughed and motioned her to precede him inside. “I’ll play for you. One song, at least.”
Grossmutter sat in the parlor, glasses perched upon her nose as she read in the dusky lamplight. Maria hesitated. Would he still play for her with Grossmutter looking on? But Pastor Bonhoeffer immediately crossed to the piano and opened the lid.
“You like music, don’t you, Ruth?” he called across the room.
Her grossmutter gave her a wondering glance, but Maria only smiled. Steps light, she hastened toward the piano. He took a seat, fingers lightly resting on the keys. She waited, almost breathless, as he gently touched one, a low, soft note filling the stillness.
Then he began to play. From memory, it seemed, the notes taking wing from his fingertips and soaring high onto the air. Maria breathed them in, letting her ears feast upon the sound, the way one savored the scarcest scrap of strudel, or the last drop of kaffee. It was the sort of song a girl could dance to, and she almost did just that. Would have, had it been a record on the gramophone and her grossmutter not present.
