Blue Sky Thunder
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What's Up This Week
"Blue Sky Thunder" by Keith Hewitt
"Whoever Is Not Against Us..." by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Psalm 124 is an emotionally powerful reminder that God is capable of protecting us in even the worst of circumstances, when, as the Psalmist puts it, "the flood would have swept us away." In this week's edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt places us in a modern setting of extreme peril -- as a mysterious man at the end of a bar remembers how he was delivered when the thunder came and he faced "being swallowed up alive." John Sumwalt rounds out this installment with a brief meditation on a street-fair painter of "Spirit"-inspired work who doesn't seem to grasp the underlying message of Jesus' words when he says that "Whoever is not against us is for us."
* * * * * * * * *
Blue Sky Thunder
By Keith Hewitt
Psalm 124
The beer hall reeked of strong beer and easy virtue, the sort of place where the barmaids were underdressed and overtipped, the music was loud, and sitting in silence would just not be tolerated. Most of the tables and booths were occupied by couples and groups, but a collection of solitary men sat at the polished oaken bar.
The man at the very end of it beckoned for another stein of dark beer as he wound down. "And there I was," he said, standing up, wavering just a bit, "sixteen years old, standing in line with the other draftees, waiting to get on the truck to take us to training camp, or maybe right to the front, when an officer comes out all gussied up in riding boots and a black trench coat and he climbs up on the back of the truck and says, 'You can all go home. I have the sad duty of telling you that hostilities between the Reich and the Allied forces have ceased as of three hours ago. Heil Hitler, and God help us all.' Then he got down from the truck, jumped into a Mercedes, and took off."
The man next to him -- older, with a patch over his left eye -- nodded. "Sounds typical for one of those SS pansies. Trust me, if they hadn't gotten orders to lay down arms, he would have been behind you all the way to the front. What did you do?"
The first man shrugged. "What else was there to do? I thanked my lucky stars; then I went home and buried some of my money and all of my silver in the garden." He drank deeply and wiped his mouth on the cuff of his shirt. "Buried my mother's jewelry too, whatever wasn't buried with her." He shrugged. "There was no telling who was going to be coming through here."
The man with the patch nodded again and took a deep draught of beer. "I was in the hospital, just outside of Regensburg, with a chunk of Russian steel in my eye. A lieutenant -- a pup, he couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty -- was trying to talk me into going back to the front after the doctors released me. 'Hans,' he said, 'you're a fine marksman, and you still have your right eye. You can shoot as well as ever.' Then one of the doctors came onto the ward and announced that the war was over. I turned to the lieutenant and told him I would not be accepting his invitation, but he was welcome to kiss my ass just the same." He set the stein down with a thud and roared with laughter; the man at the end of the bar joined in.
The man sitting on his left smiled but didn't laugh as he sipped a lighter brew -- he hadn't spoken much the whole night, preferring to let the conversations swirl around him. When the laughter died down, the man with the eye patch turned to him and said, "So what about you, friend -- August, is it? Where were you when the war ended, August?"
The man at the other end of the question paused, stein raised halfway to his lips, and considered the question...
# # #
The sun was shining bright and warm in the sky, and there was a rumble in the distance -- Donner des blauen Himmels, some of the younger men called it, "blue sky thunder." August and some of the other men from Block 11 recognized it for what it was: artillery. Quite a lot of it, too, in the rolling waves that denoted the massed chorus of cannon softening up an enemy rather than the scattered percussion of direct firing for effect.
One of the men -- a newcomer who had not yet taken on the withered skeletal form of his companions -- set one foot on somebody's bottom bunk and one hand against another bunk, and lifted himself up so he could look out the cracked, dirty window. It was a quick look, and then he ducked down and dropped back to the floor with a thud. "Still nothing," he reported. "What do you suppose is happening?" Beneath eyebrows that were now tightly knit, his eyes had the nervous look of a dog whose routine has suddenly changed and is trying to figure out what to do in the absence of structure.
"The sun has been up for at least an hour, and they haven't done roll call yet," another man chimed in, as though explanation was necessary. The barrack full of prisoners was acutely aware of the deviation from the norm -- even, dimly, the handful who had lost contact with reality and projected themselves to some time and place where confinement and grinding, soul-crushing deprivation were veiled by fantasy.
There had been a time when August -- trying to give them dignity -- had stripped away the fantasy... only to find that once he got through to them, once that happened, they withered and died, or took the more direct action of approaching the dead line that marked the clear zone inside the wire fences, grabbing hold of the single strand of wire or stepping over it, forcing the guards to shoot them.
He realized it was better to let them live where they were -- but resolved not to go there himself, clinging instead to the God he had discovered in this unlikely place, with all the heart and soul that remained after years of brutality.
The other-world residents sat in their corners and rocked, or walked from one end of the barrack to the other, dragging spent, broken bodies around an invisible circuit, every once in a while casting a glance at the sunlight that filtered through the grimy windows.
"Maybe they've gone," one of the others croaked. The communal water bucket had been emptied during the night and they struggled to cope with the dry throat of anxiety with nothing to quench it.
"Maybe," August agreed, without believing it. The creatures that ran a place like this would not commit to it so deeply that they would do the things they had done -- and then flee from it without a backward glance. They were cowards, yes -- but cowards with a fanatical crust of duty.
And what could they do about it? Would talking make their captors come? Would it bring resolution of one kind or another -- another day of random brutality, or a day when they discovered they were alone in their prison? He frowned; all of that was still out of their control, and nothing they could do would change it -- their fate would come for them, one way or another, without being beckoned.
But there was one thing he could do.
He pushed himself off the bunk where he had waited since dawn and walked to the tiny wood-burning stove that sat, cold, at the center of the barrack. His hands trembled and he struggled not to let his voice quiver in sympathy. "I don't know about you," he said loudly, grabbing the bucket, "but I'm thirsty." The bucket jangled noisily, bumping first against the stove, then his leg, bouncing in slow rhythm as he carried it past his staring companions. He reached the door and hesitated...
He could feel their eyes on him now. The muscles in his legs barely held him up as he reached for the door and pushed it open; the hinges protested loudly and sunlight poured into the barrack, puffing motes of dust ahead of itself. The assembly yard lay before him, empty -- no lines of shuffling prisoners, no guards with guns and dogs snarling at them to move, move, move! He saw a ghostly face peering at him from a window on Block 12, quickly withdrawn, and then poking up again slowly to study him. Another joined it on the other side of the window, expressionless behind dirt and fear. The only movement in the world, it seemed, was the gentle swaying of a body that dangled from one of the gallows as a single bird perched on the shoulder and fed on it -- but even the bird was restive, taking flight for no reason when he looked at it.
This will be simple, he told himself. Walk to the pump just over there, fill the bucket, and bring it back. He pushed himself away from the door and stepped across the yard toward the pump, standing next to one of the poles that held the loudspeakers. As he walked, his whole body shivered tightly even though the sun was warm -- he wanted to withdraw into himself, to pull his arms and legs toward the core of his body to stop the cold that hid there. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement and flinched -- then realized it was the spindly, elongated shadow of his own body accompanying him on his journey.
It felt good, somehow, to have even this company on his long walk.
The blue sky thunder was the only sound as he crossed the yard, stopped at the pump, and let the bucket slip out of his fingers. It hit the hard packed ground with a thud, punctuated by the rattle of the handle against the metal rim of the bucket. He positioned it under the outflow with a careful kick and raised the handle, leaned down on it, raised it, pushed down again -- three times, then four, before water finally began to spill out of the rusted outflow. He braced himself and pumped, watching the cold, rust-tinged water splash in the bucket, and was suddenly acutely aware of the dryness in his own throat; he took one hand off the pump handle, cupped it under the spout and caught a handful of water, raised it to his lips, and took it in.
It was grainy, it tasted faintly of metal, and it was wonderful.
He was bending down for another when he heard it -- the throaty rumble of a motorcycle headed his way. He let the water fall out of his hand, pumped furiously, and felt the strain of it throughout his entire body -- it ached from heel to head, every muscle burning. He raised his eyes, saw ghosts in the Block 11 window, and the one in Block 12. Then they disappeared, and he wouldn't have had to hear the motorcycle to know it had come into the yard behind him.
One more downstroke and he let the handle go, then bent over to pick up the bucket. Trembling fingers found the handle, wrapped around it and lifted, and it was like Atlas lifting the world. He staggered a little as he took his first step and slopped a little water on the ground; it soaked in quickly, leaving barely a stain in the dirt. He still had not looked back when he took the next step -- then a voice hissed, "You! What are you doing out here?"
August hesitated then -- he knew that voice. It had challenged him once before, but let him live. He stopped, turned, and saw a slight bespectacled man on the wrong side of thirty climbing off his motorcycle and snatching up his rifle. "Herr Corporal, this dog is getting water for the other dogs," he answered truthfully, in the accepted manner of speech.
"Get back inside! It is not safe for you out here!" the corporal demanded, bringing the muzzle of his rifle to bear on August.
August hesitated again, licked his lips, and wished he had drunk that second handful of water. "We seem to have a habit of meeting out here," he said quietly, not in the accepted manner. "Do you remember, Herr Corporal? You once asked me to pray for you."
The soldier at the other end of the rifle blinked once, twice, then sighed. "You. The crazy man. Passover." The muzzle dipped. He looked over his shoulder; there was another rumble now -- a truck coming from the other side of the camp. "Listen, it's not safe for you out here. Go to the latrines. Stay there, no matter what you hear."
August studied the corporal, noting the furrows in his pale face -- and was he trembling as he stood there holding that rifle? August shook his head. "Why would I do that, Herr Corporal?"
"Because you want to stay alive! Don't you understand? The line has collapsed, the enemy is closing in. They will be here in hours -- tomorrow at the latest."
"And yet, my comrades thirst. I'm going back to the barrack, Herr Corporal, and I'm bringing them water," August said as he hefted the pail once more and started to trudge back across the assembly yard. He tensed his shoulders as he walked, as though they might be able to reflect a bullet.
"You don't understand, Crazy Man!" the Corporal half-shouted, rooted to his spot as August walked away. "The officers -- they know it's gone in the crapper. The camp commander and his staff left this morning, escorting a column of prisoners to Munich -- away from the enemy lines."
"Their bravery is the stuff of legend," August grunted, halfway to the barrack.
"Will you listen to me?" the corporal shouted. August stopped, turned back to him, and waited. The truck grew louder, drawing closer as the corporal spoke. "I don't think you understand what's happening here. The animals they left behind don't intend to leave any evidence of this -- this place." He spit the last word out, giving it a vileness and obscenity with his tone that could never be found in a dictionary.
August shrugged, and the bucket handle hurt his fingers. "I understand all too well, Herr Corporal. I intend to finish my days here as a man, not a cringing beast... whatever happens." He smiled gently. " 'My help is from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth' -- Psalm 124. He's been with me this far -- I'll trust him to be with me the rest of the way." He turned again and started back toward Block 11. He staggered a bit as he walked from the weight of both the bucket and his thoughts -- but his path was straight.
"You're mad!" the guard called after him.
"Aren't we all?" August called back without turning around.
He was nearly to the door when the truck pulled through the assembly yard and stopped not twenty meters away from the barrack, stirring up dust that settled slowly in the still, warm air. "Get inside!" a voice commanded harshly, and he heard the truck door open.
At that command, he stopped and turned. His fingers quivered, wrapped around the wire handle of the bucket, and it danced next to his leg. The speaker was a tall, thin man in the black boots and overcoat of an SS officer; the silver death's head above the bill of his cap caught the sun. His left hand was wrapped around the edge of the door, fingers passing through the open window as he stood partly behind it; his right hand held an automatic pistol, which he was waving wildly. "Get inside now!" he repeated, as half a dozen enlisted men dropped off the back of the truck.
August watched the men grab twenty-liter cans of gasoline off the truck; some of them started toward Block 12, some toward Block 11. He started to speak, yet nothing came out but a dry croak -- his throat felt like he had swallowed sand. He tried again -- nothing. He licked his cracked lips with a dry tongue, bent slightly at the knees, and set the bucket down on the ground, and only then did he realize how much his hand was shaking. From somewhere, then, his voice came. "Nein," he said simply, and shook his head.
"No? I order you to get inside now, dog!" the officer roared.
August stood, mute. His heart pumped wildly, driving slush through his veins; his hands fluttered at his side.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the corporal moving away from his motorcycle. The guard hurried toward him, half-trotting, raising his rifle as he neared, and August flinched away from the butt stroke that always followed such a movement by one of them. But the blow never came -- instead the corporal stopped, interposed between August and the officer, and shouted, "Nein, Untersturmführer! There has been enough madness!"
"You side with these animals?" the officer shrieked.
"There has been enough!" the corporal shouted back. "The war is over for us."
In the next instant there was a loud crack! and hot droplets sprayed across August's face, splattering in his eyes and open mouth; almost simultaneously there was a boom! next to him that made his ears ring. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes, and when he could see again, there was a pfennig-sized hole in the truck door and the officer was sprawled on the ground, arms and legs moving weakly, the pistol flung off to his side. Behind him and near Block 12, the other soldiers stood frozen, a tableau of uncertainty and fear, gas cans and rolled-up newspapers in hand.
Beside August the corporal knelt, holding himself up with his rifle, its butt planted in the dirt, one hand wrapped around the warm barrel, the other down near the bolt. There was a dark, spreading stain on the back of his gray uniform tunic.
It was one of those moments of utter uncertainty where a cloud of possible futures dance, waiting for the music to stop so they can scramble for the one remaining chair that will hold the future. A handful of armed men stared at one another across open space, each lost in his own fear or rage or guilt, each measuring what might happen next against his own future, his own dreams for what might come now that the war was ending.
And then the one thing happened that would collapse the cloud of maybes to a single certainty. The corporal drew himself up on his knees and shouted, "Go! The madness ends here, it ends now!"
The man nearest them dropped his can of gasoline; it landed with a thud and fell on its side, the rifle joining it in the dirt a moment later. Then another, and another... two of them came back to the truck and climbed into the cab, one kicking the officer out of the way so he could pass. The rest of the men walked away, back toward the main gate on the far side of the camp, shedding their belts and ammunition, helmets and tunics, as they walked.
The corporal nodded at their backs, his face set in grim lines, his skin pale beneath the sweat, then sighed and toppled over, suddenly limp. August caught his shoulder and went down to his knees, trying to keep him from falling, and ended up sitting in the dirt, cradling the corporal's head and shoulders in his lap. "Why did you do that?" he asked, as the man's eyelids fluttered and he tried to focus.
"It was what... I should have done... a long time ago," the man said hoarsely. His breath was coming hard. Impulsively, August touched the man's face with his fingertips and felt the skin cold and clammy to the touch. "I'm sorry," he finished.
"Don't be," August said softly. "You did a brave thing."
"No," the corporal wheezed, "just the right thing... and too late. Too late." There was a long silence, and then the corporal licked his lips, struggling to focus on August's face above him. "That night I found you out here... you talked of God... and how he was with you..." He hesitated, taking a couple of shallow breaths, then a deeper one. "You said God was here... with you... and I asked you to pray for me... do you remember?"
August nodded, feeling sick. "I do, Herr Corporal."
The corporal looked at him intently. "So did you? Did you pray for me?"
August looked down at the dying man and tried not to meet his eyes. "Yes," he lied, "of course I did."
The dying man smiled then. "Good," he said softly. "Good." He said nothing more then, and the smile soon became fixed, a ghost of an expression on a still, pale face. August was still cradling the body when the advance elements of the American column arrived in the camp some hours later.
They didn't understand why he wept when they pulled him off...
# # #
"So what about it? Where were you when the war ended, August?" the man in the eye patch repeated when there was no quick answer.
August looked in the mirror behind the bar and studied the man he saw there. He thought about that day, and all the nights since then when it invaded his dreams, and he shook his head. "I can't say," he answered softly. "I'll let you know when it's over."
He finished his beer and left without another word, to go home and do battle with his dreams.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT Department at a major public safety testing organization.
Whoever Is Not Against Us...
by John Sumwalt
Mark 9:38-50
John said to him, "Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us." But Jesus said, "Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward."
-- Mark 9:38-41
There is a Labor Day event in our community called the St. Marten's Fair. Several thousand people descend on the little village of St. Marten for three days and nights of eating, drinking, and shopping in over a hundred flea market-like booths lined up on both sides of a mile-long main street. There is live music and some seating, but the main activity is walking in a river of people about seven deep on one side and eight or nine deep going the other direction. Some fairgoers push carts crammed with heirloom tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables from the farm markets interspersed along the way. Others are drinking fresh squeezed lemonade or eating buttered sweet corn, greasy curly fries, and spare ribs dripping with barbecue sauce. All are filled with a festival spirit heightened by the warm sun and a cool breeze on a perfect summer day.
Hawkers who work at computers in cubicles during the week shout out their wares over the din of the crowd. "Ice cold water here, one dollar!" "Try our fresh kettle corn!" "T-shirts, sunglasses, belts for three dollars, today only!"
Zealous religious folks can be seen sitting quietly at their booths behind loud signs that cry out, "Are you going to heaven?" and "Jesus saves!" Mostly they are left alone. People stream by, seemingly avoiding even a glance in their direction. A dejected but determined-looking man sitting in something called a "Godmobile" must be thinking, "Anyone who witnesses for the Lord must expect to be ignored by the world."
There is one booth that advertises "spiritually inspired paintings." They are covered with squiggly, abstract designs painted in a variety of pastel colors. The artist points to one painting, saying, "This is Jesus, the good shepherd, caring for his sheep." She says spiritual phrases can be seen on some of the paintings, legible because of the way the paint has dried.
An interested fairgoer comments that "perhaps this was 'Spirit'-guided, something like automatic writing that occurs when a person's hand is directed by some unseen force and results in beautiful poetry or music."
"Oh, no," the artist declares defensively, "this is not automatic writing! It's from the Holy Spirit!" (emphasis on "Holy").
The fairgoer wonders if "Spirit" and "Holy Spirit" might be the same thing. The artist becomes more animated in her resistance, insisting that her paintings are Christian and not just inspired by "spirit." The fairgoer doesn't know what to say. He tries to explain that, like her, he is a follower of Jesus, but that in his church there is a belief that "Spirit," by whatever name, is understood to be "Holy" and can be present in any person regardless of religious affiliation. The artist responds angrily at this suggestion and begins to launch into a long-practiced diatribe. The fairgoer turns away quietly and moves on to the next booth.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
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StoryShare, September 27, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Blue Sky Thunder" by Keith Hewitt
"Whoever Is Not Against Us..." by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Psalm 124 is an emotionally powerful reminder that God is capable of protecting us in even the worst of circumstances, when, as the Psalmist puts it, "the flood would have swept us away." In this week's edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt places us in a modern setting of extreme peril -- as a mysterious man at the end of a bar remembers how he was delivered when the thunder came and he faced "being swallowed up alive." John Sumwalt rounds out this installment with a brief meditation on a street-fair painter of "Spirit"-inspired work who doesn't seem to grasp the underlying message of Jesus' words when he says that "Whoever is not against us is for us."
* * * * * * * * *
Blue Sky Thunder
By Keith Hewitt
Psalm 124
The beer hall reeked of strong beer and easy virtue, the sort of place where the barmaids were underdressed and overtipped, the music was loud, and sitting in silence would just not be tolerated. Most of the tables and booths were occupied by couples and groups, but a collection of solitary men sat at the polished oaken bar.
The man at the very end of it beckoned for another stein of dark beer as he wound down. "And there I was," he said, standing up, wavering just a bit, "sixteen years old, standing in line with the other draftees, waiting to get on the truck to take us to training camp, or maybe right to the front, when an officer comes out all gussied up in riding boots and a black trench coat and he climbs up on the back of the truck and says, 'You can all go home. I have the sad duty of telling you that hostilities between the Reich and the Allied forces have ceased as of three hours ago. Heil Hitler, and God help us all.' Then he got down from the truck, jumped into a Mercedes, and took off."
The man next to him -- older, with a patch over his left eye -- nodded. "Sounds typical for one of those SS pansies. Trust me, if they hadn't gotten orders to lay down arms, he would have been behind you all the way to the front. What did you do?"
The first man shrugged. "What else was there to do? I thanked my lucky stars; then I went home and buried some of my money and all of my silver in the garden." He drank deeply and wiped his mouth on the cuff of his shirt. "Buried my mother's jewelry too, whatever wasn't buried with her." He shrugged. "There was no telling who was going to be coming through here."
The man with the patch nodded again and took a deep draught of beer. "I was in the hospital, just outside of Regensburg, with a chunk of Russian steel in my eye. A lieutenant -- a pup, he couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty -- was trying to talk me into going back to the front after the doctors released me. 'Hans,' he said, 'you're a fine marksman, and you still have your right eye. You can shoot as well as ever.' Then one of the doctors came onto the ward and announced that the war was over. I turned to the lieutenant and told him I would not be accepting his invitation, but he was welcome to kiss my ass just the same." He set the stein down with a thud and roared with laughter; the man at the end of the bar joined in.
The man sitting on his left smiled but didn't laugh as he sipped a lighter brew -- he hadn't spoken much the whole night, preferring to let the conversations swirl around him. When the laughter died down, the man with the eye patch turned to him and said, "So what about you, friend -- August, is it? Where were you when the war ended, August?"
The man at the other end of the question paused, stein raised halfway to his lips, and considered the question...
# # #
The sun was shining bright and warm in the sky, and there was a rumble in the distance -- Donner des blauen Himmels, some of the younger men called it, "blue sky thunder." August and some of the other men from Block 11 recognized it for what it was: artillery. Quite a lot of it, too, in the rolling waves that denoted the massed chorus of cannon softening up an enemy rather than the scattered percussion of direct firing for effect.
One of the men -- a newcomer who had not yet taken on the withered skeletal form of his companions -- set one foot on somebody's bottom bunk and one hand against another bunk, and lifted himself up so he could look out the cracked, dirty window. It was a quick look, and then he ducked down and dropped back to the floor with a thud. "Still nothing," he reported. "What do you suppose is happening?" Beneath eyebrows that were now tightly knit, his eyes had the nervous look of a dog whose routine has suddenly changed and is trying to figure out what to do in the absence of structure.
"The sun has been up for at least an hour, and they haven't done roll call yet," another man chimed in, as though explanation was necessary. The barrack full of prisoners was acutely aware of the deviation from the norm -- even, dimly, the handful who had lost contact with reality and projected themselves to some time and place where confinement and grinding, soul-crushing deprivation were veiled by fantasy.
There had been a time when August -- trying to give them dignity -- had stripped away the fantasy... only to find that once he got through to them, once that happened, they withered and died, or took the more direct action of approaching the dead line that marked the clear zone inside the wire fences, grabbing hold of the single strand of wire or stepping over it, forcing the guards to shoot them.
He realized it was better to let them live where they were -- but resolved not to go there himself, clinging instead to the God he had discovered in this unlikely place, with all the heart and soul that remained after years of brutality.
The other-world residents sat in their corners and rocked, or walked from one end of the barrack to the other, dragging spent, broken bodies around an invisible circuit, every once in a while casting a glance at the sunlight that filtered through the grimy windows.
"Maybe they've gone," one of the others croaked. The communal water bucket had been emptied during the night and they struggled to cope with the dry throat of anxiety with nothing to quench it.
"Maybe," August agreed, without believing it. The creatures that ran a place like this would not commit to it so deeply that they would do the things they had done -- and then flee from it without a backward glance. They were cowards, yes -- but cowards with a fanatical crust of duty.
And what could they do about it? Would talking make their captors come? Would it bring resolution of one kind or another -- another day of random brutality, or a day when they discovered they were alone in their prison? He frowned; all of that was still out of their control, and nothing they could do would change it -- their fate would come for them, one way or another, without being beckoned.
But there was one thing he could do.
He pushed himself off the bunk where he had waited since dawn and walked to the tiny wood-burning stove that sat, cold, at the center of the barrack. His hands trembled and he struggled not to let his voice quiver in sympathy. "I don't know about you," he said loudly, grabbing the bucket, "but I'm thirsty." The bucket jangled noisily, bumping first against the stove, then his leg, bouncing in slow rhythm as he carried it past his staring companions. He reached the door and hesitated...
He could feel their eyes on him now. The muscles in his legs barely held him up as he reached for the door and pushed it open; the hinges protested loudly and sunlight poured into the barrack, puffing motes of dust ahead of itself. The assembly yard lay before him, empty -- no lines of shuffling prisoners, no guards with guns and dogs snarling at them to move, move, move! He saw a ghostly face peering at him from a window on Block 12, quickly withdrawn, and then poking up again slowly to study him. Another joined it on the other side of the window, expressionless behind dirt and fear. The only movement in the world, it seemed, was the gentle swaying of a body that dangled from one of the gallows as a single bird perched on the shoulder and fed on it -- but even the bird was restive, taking flight for no reason when he looked at it.
This will be simple, he told himself. Walk to the pump just over there, fill the bucket, and bring it back. He pushed himself away from the door and stepped across the yard toward the pump, standing next to one of the poles that held the loudspeakers. As he walked, his whole body shivered tightly even though the sun was warm -- he wanted to withdraw into himself, to pull his arms and legs toward the core of his body to stop the cold that hid there. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement and flinched -- then realized it was the spindly, elongated shadow of his own body accompanying him on his journey.
It felt good, somehow, to have even this company on his long walk.
The blue sky thunder was the only sound as he crossed the yard, stopped at the pump, and let the bucket slip out of his fingers. It hit the hard packed ground with a thud, punctuated by the rattle of the handle against the metal rim of the bucket. He positioned it under the outflow with a careful kick and raised the handle, leaned down on it, raised it, pushed down again -- three times, then four, before water finally began to spill out of the rusted outflow. He braced himself and pumped, watching the cold, rust-tinged water splash in the bucket, and was suddenly acutely aware of the dryness in his own throat; he took one hand off the pump handle, cupped it under the spout and caught a handful of water, raised it to his lips, and took it in.
It was grainy, it tasted faintly of metal, and it was wonderful.
He was bending down for another when he heard it -- the throaty rumble of a motorcycle headed his way. He let the water fall out of his hand, pumped furiously, and felt the strain of it throughout his entire body -- it ached from heel to head, every muscle burning. He raised his eyes, saw ghosts in the Block 11 window, and the one in Block 12. Then they disappeared, and he wouldn't have had to hear the motorcycle to know it had come into the yard behind him.
One more downstroke and he let the handle go, then bent over to pick up the bucket. Trembling fingers found the handle, wrapped around it and lifted, and it was like Atlas lifting the world. He staggered a little as he took his first step and slopped a little water on the ground; it soaked in quickly, leaving barely a stain in the dirt. He still had not looked back when he took the next step -- then a voice hissed, "You! What are you doing out here?"
August hesitated then -- he knew that voice. It had challenged him once before, but let him live. He stopped, turned, and saw a slight bespectacled man on the wrong side of thirty climbing off his motorcycle and snatching up his rifle. "Herr Corporal, this dog is getting water for the other dogs," he answered truthfully, in the accepted manner of speech.
"Get back inside! It is not safe for you out here!" the corporal demanded, bringing the muzzle of his rifle to bear on August.
August hesitated again, licked his lips, and wished he had drunk that second handful of water. "We seem to have a habit of meeting out here," he said quietly, not in the accepted manner. "Do you remember, Herr Corporal? You once asked me to pray for you."
The soldier at the other end of the rifle blinked once, twice, then sighed. "You. The crazy man. Passover." The muzzle dipped. He looked over his shoulder; there was another rumble now -- a truck coming from the other side of the camp. "Listen, it's not safe for you out here. Go to the latrines. Stay there, no matter what you hear."
August studied the corporal, noting the furrows in his pale face -- and was he trembling as he stood there holding that rifle? August shook his head. "Why would I do that, Herr Corporal?"
"Because you want to stay alive! Don't you understand? The line has collapsed, the enemy is closing in. They will be here in hours -- tomorrow at the latest."
"And yet, my comrades thirst. I'm going back to the barrack, Herr Corporal, and I'm bringing them water," August said as he hefted the pail once more and started to trudge back across the assembly yard. He tensed his shoulders as he walked, as though they might be able to reflect a bullet.
"You don't understand, Crazy Man!" the Corporal half-shouted, rooted to his spot as August walked away. "The officers -- they know it's gone in the crapper. The camp commander and his staff left this morning, escorting a column of prisoners to Munich -- away from the enemy lines."
"Their bravery is the stuff of legend," August grunted, halfway to the barrack.
"Will you listen to me?" the corporal shouted. August stopped, turned back to him, and waited. The truck grew louder, drawing closer as the corporal spoke. "I don't think you understand what's happening here. The animals they left behind don't intend to leave any evidence of this -- this place." He spit the last word out, giving it a vileness and obscenity with his tone that could never be found in a dictionary.
August shrugged, and the bucket handle hurt his fingers. "I understand all too well, Herr Corporal. I intend to finish my days here as a man, not a cringing beast... whatever happens." He smiled gently. " 'My help is from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth' -- Psalm 124. He's been with me this far -- I'll trust him to be with me the rest of the way." He turned again and started back toward Block 11. He staggered a bit as he walked from the weight of both the bucket and his thoughts -- but his path was straight.
"You're mad!" the guard called after him.
"Aren't we all?" August called back without turning around.
He was nearly to the door when the truck pulled through the assembly yard and stopped not twenty meters away from the barrack, stirring up dust that settled slowly in the still, warm air. "Get inside!" a voice commanded harshly, and he heard the truck door open.
At that command, he stopped and turned. His fingers quivered, wrapped around the wire handle of the bucket, and it danced next to his leg. The speaker was a tall, thin man in the black boots and overcoat of an SS officer; the silver death's head above the bill of his cap caught the sun. His left hand was wrapped around the edge of the door, fingers passing through the open window as he stood partly behind it; his right hand held an automatic pistol, which he was waving wildly. "Get inside now!" he repeated, as half a dozen enlisted men dropped off the back of the truck.
August watched the men grab twenty-liter cans of gasoline off the truck; some of them started toward Block 12, some toward Block 11. He started to speak, yet nothing came out but a dry croak -- his throat felt like he had swallowed sand. He tried again -- nothing. He licked his cracked lips with a dry tongue, bent slightly at the knees, and set the bucket down on the ground, and only then did he realize how much his hand was shaking. From somewhere, then, his voice came. "Nein," he said simply, and shook his head.
"No? I order you to get inside now, dog!" the officer roared.
August stood, mute. His heart pumped wildly, driving slush through his veins; his hands fluttered at his side.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the corporal moving away from his motorcycle. The guard hurried toward him, half-trotting, raising his rifle as he neared, and August flinched away from the butt stroke that always followed such a movement by one of them. But the blow never came -- instead the corporal stopped, interposed between August and the officer, and shouted, "Nein, Untersturmführer! There has been enough madness!"
"You side with these animals?" the officer shrieked.
"There has been enough!" the corporal shouted back. "The war is over for us."
In the next instant there was a loud crack! and hot droplets sprayed across August's face, splattering in his eyes and open mouth; almost simultaneously there was a boom! next to him that made his ears ring. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes, and when he could see again, there was a pfennig-sized hole in the truck door and the officer was sprawled on the ground, arms and legs moving weakly, the pistol flung off to his side. Behind him and near Block 12, the other soldiers stood frozen, a tableau of uncertainty and fear, gas cans and rolled-up newspapers in hand.
Beside August the corporal knelt, holding himself up with his rifle, its butt planted in the dirt, one hand wrapped around the warm barrel, the other down near the bolt. There was a dark, spreading stain on the back of his gray uniform tunic.
It was one of those moments of utter uncertainty where a cloud of possible futures dance, waiting for the music to stop so they can scramble for the one remaining chair that will hold the future. A handful of armed men stared at one another across open space, each lost in his own fear or rage or guilt, each measuring what might happen next against his own future, his own dreams for what might come now that the war was ending.
And then the one thing happened that would collapse the cloud of maybes to a single certainty. The corporal drew himself up on his knees and shouted, "Go! The madness ends here, it ends now!"
The man nearest them dropped his can of gasoline; it landed with a thud and fell on its side, the rifle joining it in the dirt a moment later. Then another, and another... two of them came back to the truck and climbed into the cab, one kicking the officer out of the way so he could pass. The rest of the men walked away, back toward the main gate on the far side of the camp, shedding their belts and ammunition, helmets and tunics, as they walked.
The corporal nodded at their backs, his face set in grim lines, his skin pale beneath the sweat, then sighed and toppled over, suddenly limp. August caught his shoulder and went down to his knees, trying to keep him from falling, and ended up sitting in the dirt, cradling the corporal's head and shoulders in his lap. "Why did you do that?" he asked, as the man's eyelids fluttered and he tried to focus.
"It was what... I should have done... a long time ago," the man said hoarsely. His breath was coming hard. Impulsively, August touched the man's face with his fingertips and felt the skin cold and clammy to the touch. "I'm sorry," he finished.
"Don't be," August said softly. "You did a brave thing."
"No," the corporal wheezed, "just the right thing... and too late. Too late." There was a long silence, and then the corporal licked his lips, struggling to focus on August's face above him. "That night I found you out here... you talked of God... and how he was with you..." He hesitated, taking a couple of shallow breaths, then a deeper one. "You said God was here... with you... and I asked you to pray for me... do you remember?"
August nodded, feeling sick. "I do, Herr Corporal."
The corporal looked at him intently. "So did you? Did you pray for me?"
August looked down at the dying man and tried not to meet his eyes. "Yes," he lied, "of course I did."
The dying man smiled then. "Good," he said softly. "Good." He said nothing more then, and the smile soon became fixed, a ghost of an expression on a still, pale face. August was still cradling the body when the advance elements of the American column arrived in the camp some hours later.
They didn't understand why he wept when they pulled him off...
# # #
"So what about it? Where were you when the war ended, August?" the man in the eye patch repeated when there was no quick answer.
August looked in the mirror behind the bar and studied the man he saw there. He thought about that day, and all the nights since then when it invaded his dreams, and he shook his head. "I can't say," he answered softly. "I'll let you know when it's over."
He finished his beer and left without another word, to go home and do battle with his dreams.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT Department at a major public safety testing organization.
Whoever Is Not Against Us...
by John Sumwalt
Mark 9:38-50
John said to him, "Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us." But Jesus said, "Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward."
-- Mark 9:38-41
There is a Labor Day event in our community called the St. Marten's Fair. Several thousand people descend on the little village of St. Marten for three days and nights of eating, drinking, and shopping in over a hundred flea market-like booths lined up on both sides of a mile-long main street. There is live music and some seating, but the main activity is walking in a river of people about seven deep on one side and eight or nine deep going the other direction. Some fairgoers push carts crammed with heirloom tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables from the farm markets interspersed along the way. Others are drinking fresh squeezed lemonade or eating buttered sweet corn, greasy curly fries, and spare ribs dripping with barbecue sauce. All are filled with a festival spirit heightened by the warm sun and a cool breeze on a perfect summer day.
Hawkers who work at computers in cubicles during the week shout out their wares over the din of the crowd. "Ice cold water here, one dollar!" "Try our fresh kettle corn!" "T-shirts, sunglasses, belts for three dollars, today only!"
Zealous religious folks can be seen sitting quietly at their booths behind loud signs that cry out, "Are you going to heaven?" and "Jesus saves!" Mostly they are left alone. People stream by, seemingly avoiding even a glance in their direction. A dejected but determined-looking man sitting in something called a "Godmobile" must be thinking, "Anyone who witnesses for the Lord must expect to be ignored by the world."
There is one booth that advertises "spiritually inspired paintings." They are covered with squiggly, abstract designs painted in a variety of pastel colors. The artist points to one painting, saying, "This is Jesus, the good shepherd, caring for his sheep." She says spiritual phrases can be seen on some of the paintings, legible because of the way the paint has dried.
An interested fairgoer comments that "perhaps this was 'Spirit'-guided, something like automatic writing that occurs when a person's hand is directed by some unseen force and results in beautiful poetry or music."
"Oh, no," the artist declares defensively, "this is not automatic writing! It's from the Holy Spirit!" (emphasis on "Holy").
The fairgoer wonders if "Spirit" and "Holy Spirit" might be the same thing. The artist becomes more animated in her resistance, insisting that her paintings are Christian and not just inspired by "spirit." The fairgoer doesn't know what to say. He tries to explain that, like her, he is a follower of Jesus, but that in his church there is a belief that "Spirit," by whatever name, is understood to be "Holy" and can be present in any person regardless of religious affiliation. The artist responds angrily at this suggestion and begins to launch into a long-practiced diatribe. The fairgoer turns away quietly and moves on to the next booth.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
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StoryShare, September 27, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
