The Plot
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Plot" by Keith Hewitt
"The Bread of Life" by John Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt
* * * * * * * *
The Plot
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 11:26--12:13a
Heinz Stroebel stood on the left side of the table and counted the revolutions of the ceiling fan without looking at it, instead marking each revolution by the faint reflection of the blades in the highly polished wooden tabletop. Here and there, among the maps and files spread out across the surface, there were open spots like lakes of oak in a desert of paper.
556... 557... 558...
It was the only way he could stand there, impassive, while sweat trickled down his back and his superiors spoke endlessly about troop strengths and logistics, liberation and consolidation, threats and responses.
559... 560... 561...
As an analyst and junior planner for the General Staff, these were the kinds of things that had held his interest for half a decade now. Fueled by the recollections of his father -- uttered in breathy whispers because the old man had sucked in a lungful of British phosgene just before the Western Front collapsed in 1918 -- Heinz had joined the army after graduating from the university and risen through the ranks quickly on the basis of his analyses and estimates. And now...
562... 563... 564...
"-- and that concludes the situation briefing for this morning, Herr Chancellor."
The voice -- his mentor, General von Rusk -- caused Stroebel to raise his eyes and look to his right, where the Chancellor was leaning over the table, hands spread across the map, spanning the Seine as he studied the symbols intently, as though trying to memorize them. Perhaps he was -- the man had a knack for recalling detail... and if he remembered incorrectly, few dared to correct him.
Stroebel cleared his throat diffidently, licked his lips, and said quietly, "Herr General von Rusk, there was one other item. I apologize, I did not have the opportunity to brief you before this meeting, so you have no knowledge of it."
The old general's face would have been an interesting study for a talented artist -- first the thick gray eyebrows arched as Stroebel cleared his throat, then the eyes were pleading as he began to speak, ending with a look somewhere between gratitude and pity. Gamely, von Rusk rumbled, "Colonel Stroebel, perhaps we should discuss this before taking the Chancellor's time, since I have not seen this item you bring."
The Chancellor, who had looked up at the first noise from Stroebel, looked from his face to the old general, then back, trying to gauge his response. Making a choice, then, he met Stroebel's gaze. "You have a report, Colonel?"
For a moment -- just a moment -- Stroebel pictured himself standing at the edge of a great precipice. To the front was the vast darkness of eternity, behind was solid ground; between, the sweat trickling down his back and the pounding of his heart. He nodded, stepped forward into the darkness. "I do, Herr Chancellor." He reached into the leather messenger bag that had not left his side, pulled out a buff colored folder, and held it closely while he spoke, not offering it to the man at the end of the table.
"I have recently become aware of a plot, Herr Chancellor -- a plot that I believe has the potential to threaten the stability of the Fatherland."
The words -- correct, but carefully chosen nonetheless -- had the calculated effect on the Chancellor. His eyes glittered -- he subsisted on plots the way some men craved alcohol. "Then by all means, tell us about this threat, Herr Colonel." He reached toward the folder in Stroebel's hand.
Stroebel did not extend it to him, continuing to hold it in front of himself as he spoke. "There are enemies within the nation that plan to kill German citizens. Thousands of them, certainly -- possibly tens of thousands," the young colonel said with intense confidence. "There are detailed plans and methods drawn up for this mass murder. There are also plans to disrupt the transportation system and the production of necessary materiel for our military."
As he spoke, a cadaverous man wearing an expensive suit that hung on him rather poorly entered the conference room and went to the Chancellor's side, leaned over and spoke to him in a whisper. The Chancellor waved him off and turned his attention back to Stroebel. "You were saying something about disruptions?" He reached toward the folder again.
Stroebel held it closely. "Yes, Herr Chancellor. They plan to tie up our railroads, which will hinder troop movements and the delivery of vital materiel to our military. And they plan to sabotage -- for want of a better word -- some of our most important wartime industries. If we do go to war --"
The Chancellor smiled faintly at the word "if."
"-- then we will find ourselves at a disadvantage. You know, yourself, that modern warfare is total. The entire weight of the State must be focused on the war effort -- it can ill afford distractions like mass murder. Anything less, and we may find ourselves crushed by some greater industrial power that does have the will to focus its entire output against us."
The Chancellor opened his mouth to speak, but the civilian at his side leaned down and whispered into his ear once more. The older man nodded and waved him off again. "Colonel, these are most provocative statements. I hope your report will back them up." He held out his hand expectantly.
Stroebel hesitated just a moment, then held out the folder.
The Chancellor took it, flipped open the cover, and glanced at the first page -- did not really see it; Stroebel could tell. He closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. "And now, gentlemen, I am late for an appointment with Minister Molotov, who will no doubt tell me what a great friend Stalin wishes to be. Tomorrow morning we will discuss Colonel Stroebel's report -- I hope it is everything you said it was, Colonel."
Stroebel nodded stiffly. "It is, sir."
"Then I look forward to our discussion."
And, with that, he was gone -- ushered out by the interloper and a handful of bodyguards. The staff officers stared after him, then turned their gaze to Stroebel, who ignored them. He waited for General von Rusk and fell in next to him as they waited for the others to file out of the room. When they were safely down the corridor, von Rusk looked at him and shook his head. "Heinz, Heinz, what have you done?"
"You know what I did, Herr General. I discovered a plot for mass murder and supply line interruption, all of which will be dangerous to the State if we do go to war."
"When we go to war," von Rusk corrected gently. "And you know what I mean, Colonel. I know what you did, even though you were kind enough to say I had no foreknowledge of it."
Stroebel shrugged. "I analyze. I study. I predict. I predict that if this plot goes unchecked, it will destroy us." He paused, said more softly. "And if it does not allow our enemies to destroy us, then it will surely destroy us from within."
Their boots, clicking in sync, echoed sharply down the corridor as they walked in silence for several long moments. Finally, von Rusk grunted and said, "And what do you suppose the Chancellor will say when he reads that it's his own Gestapo that is behind this plot to kill tens of thousands of German citizens -- deport them to death camps or work them to death as slave labor?"
Stroebel stopped; von Rusk took a step more, then stopped, also, and turned to face his protégé; they were out of earshot of the guards posted in the corridor. Stroebel spoke quietly, nonetheless. "I imagine he will either be enraged and order that weasel, Himmler, to be arrested. Or..." He trailed off, looked at his old friend and half-smiled.
"Or it will be your head on the chopping block," von Rusk finished the sentence.
"Those are the likely scenarios. But I'm an analyst, not a policy maker -- I had no choice but to bring this out into the open. I can't worry about what the consequences will be."
"Of course," von Rusk murmured. With him in the lead, they started down the corridor again -- then he stopped and turned to face Stroebel once more. "Still -- I do recall that your wife and daughter are in Switzerland, are they not?"
"And they will stay there, Mein General, until they get a specifically worded message from me." Stroebel smiled and shrugged. "I guess I can worry a little bit. I must protect those things I care most about, General -- my family and my country."
von Rusk nodded, reached out and patted Stroebel on the shoulder. "I wish we had more like you -- and less like them," he nodded in the direction the Chancellor and his deputy had gone. "It would be a different world."
Stroebel just patted the old man's hand and said, "We all do what we must."
When it seemed there was nothing more to be said, they walked on in silence.
The Bread of Life
by John E. Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt
John 6:24-35
When the INNS shelter program for the homeless started in Kenosha, I signed up for the training to be a volunteer. After I was trained, I was assigned a three-hour shift on a Sunday night at Lord of Life Lutheran Church, several blocks up the street from my own congregation. My shift was to be from 8:00 till 11:00 P.M. I helped to register the homeless persons as they arrived. Each person received a foam pad for a mattress, a small pillow, a sheet, and a blanket. After they had received their gear, we took them into the fellowship hall where they were to sleep on the floor. There was a row of tables and chairs dividing the room. Men slept on one side and women and children on the other. No children registered that evening, but one young woman was in the late stages of pregnancy. Before my shift was through her labor pains had started and an ambulance had been called to take her to the hospital.
In all, about 25 persons came to the shelter on that cold November evening. Most of them were young men in their twenties and thirties. It was evident that they all knew each other, probably because they had sheltered together before on the street and in the churches after the INNS program began. A few of the men were quiet and kept to themselves but several of them gathered around a large African-American man named Bill, who seemed to be a kind of leader in the group. They shared a warm camaraderie that was a joy to behold. They did not have homes and, in most cases, jobs, but they had each other, and they clearly enjoyed one another's company.
About 10:00 P.M., I went into the kitchen to make popcorn and to distribute snacks that had been provided by members of the churches participating in the program. Almost everyone came to get a cookie and a cup of coffee and then went back to the table where some of the men were engaged in a game of cards. Bill brought out an apple pie he said he had purchased from among the day-old items at one of the bakeries. He cut the pie up and began to distribute pieces to all of his friends. I stood there watching hungrily, hoping he might offer me a piece too. I felt guilty about my feelings, because I knew I would be going home in an hour and I could have anything I wanted to eat out of our family's well-stocked pantry.
I stood there looking on, envious of their fellowship as I wallowed in my suburban yuppie angst. Bill must have sensed my hunger, because just then he looked up and asked if I would like to have a piece of pie. I eagerly said yes and quickly joined him and the others at the table. It felt very good to be included in their group. As I ate my pie and joined in the conversation, I became aware that we were sharing what our Lord Jesus called "the bread of life," and I knew I was in his presence.
from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit: 62 Stories for Cycle B 0-7880-0817-X (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 1996), pp. 154-155.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 5, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"The Plot" by Keith Hewitt
"The Bread of Life" by John Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt
* * * * * * * *
The Plot
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 11:26--12:13a
Heinz Stroebel stood on the left side of the table and counted the revolutions of the ceiling fan without looking at it, instead marking each revolution by the faint reflection of the blades in the highly polished wooden tabletop. Here and there, among the maps and files spread out across the surface, there were open spots like lakes of oak in a desert of paper.
556... 557... 558...
It was the only way he could stand there, impassive, while sweat trickled down his back and his superiors spoke endlessly about troop strengths and logistics, liberation and consolidation, threats and responses.
559... 560... 561...
As an analyst and junior planner for the General Staff, these were the kinds of things that had held his interest for half a decade now. Fueled by the recollections of his father -- uttered in breathy whispers because the old man had sucked in a lungful of British phosgene just before the Western Front collapsed in 1918 -- Heinz had joined the army after graduating from the university and risen through the ranks quickly on the basis of his analyses and estimates. And now...
562... 563... 564...
"-- and that concludes the situation briefing for this morning, Herr Chancellor."
The voice -- his mentor, General von Rusk -- caused Stroebel to raise his eyes and look to his right, where the Chancellor was leaning over the table, hands spread across the map, spanning the Seine as he studied the symbols intently, as though trying to memorize them. Perhaps he was -- the man had a knack for recalling detail... and if he remembered incorrectly, few dared to correct him.
Stroebel cleared his throat diffidently, licked his lips, and said quietly, "Herr General von Rusk, there was one other item. I apologize, I did not have the opportunity to brief you before this meeting, so you have no knowledge of it."
The old general's face would have been an interesting study for a talented artist -- first the thick gray eyebrows arched as Stroebel cleared his throat, then the eyes were pleading as he began to speak, ending with a look somewhere between gratitude and pity. Gamely, von Rusk rumbled, "Colonel Stroebel, perhaps we should discuss this before taking the Chancellor's time, since I have not seen this item you bring."
The Chancellor, who had looked up at the first noise from Stroebel, looked from his face to the old general, then back, trying to gauge his response. Making a choice, then, he met Stroebel's gaze. "You have a report, Colonel?"
For a moment -- just a moment -- Stroebel pictured himself standing at the edge of a great precipice. To the front was the vast darkness of eternity, behind was solid ground; between, the sweat trickling down his back and the pounding of his heart. He nodded, stepped forward into the darkness. "I do, Herr Chancellor." He reached into the leather messenger bag that had not left his side, pulled out a buff colored folder, and held it closely while he spoke, not offering it to the man at the end of the table.
"I have recently become aware of a plot, Herr Chancellor -- a plot that I believe has the potential to threaten the stability of the Fatherland."
The words -- correct, but carefully chosen nonetheless -- had the calculated effect on the Chancellor. His eyes glittered -- he subsisted on plots the way some men craved alcohol. "Then by all means, tell us about this threat, Herr Colonel." He reached toward the folder in Stroebel's hand.
Stroebel did not extend it to him, continuing to hold it in front of himself as he spoke. "There are enemies within the nation that plan to kill German citizens. Thousands of them, certainly -- possibly tens of thousands," the young colonel said with intense confidence. "There are detailed plans and methods drawn up for this mass murder. There are also plans to disrupt the transportation system and the production of necessary materiel for our military."
As he spoke, a cadaverous man wearing an expensive suit that hung on him rather poorly entered the conference room and went to the Chancellor's side, leaned over and spoke to him in a whisper. The Chancellor waved him off and turned his attention back to Stroebel. "You were saying something about disruptions?" He reached toward the folder again.
Stroebel held it closely. "Yes, Herr Chancellor. They plan to tie up our railroads, which will hinder troop movements and the delivery of vital materiel to our military. And they plan to sabotage -- for want of a better word -- some of our most important wartime industries. If we do go to war --"
The Chancellor smiled faintly at the word "if."
"-- then we will find ourselves at a disadvantage. You know, yourself, that modern warfare is total. The entire weight of the State must be focused on the war effort -- it can ill afford distractions like mass murder. Anything less, and we may find ourselves crushed by some greater industrial power that does have the will to focus its entire output against us."
The Chancellor opened his mouth to speak, but the civilian at his side leaned down and whispered into his ear once more. The older man nodded and waved him off again. "Colonel, these are most provocative statements. I hope your report will back them up." He held out his hand expectantly.
Stroebel hesitated just a moment, then held out the folder.
The Chancellor took it, flipped open the cover, and glanced at the first page -- did not really see it; Stroebel could tell. He closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. "And now, gentlemen, I am late for an appointment with Minister Molotov, who will no doubt tell me what a great friend Stalin wishes to be. Tomorrow morning we will discuss Colonel Stroebel's report -- I hope it is everything you said it was, Colonel."
Stroebel nodded stiffly. "It is, sir."
"Then I look forward to our discussion."
And, with that, he was gone -- ushered out by the interloper and a handful of bodyguards. The staff officers stared after him, then turned their gaze to Stroebel, who ignored them. He waited for General von Rusk and fell in next to him as they waited for the others to file out of the room. When they were safely down the corridor, von Rusk looked at him and shook his head. "Heinz, Heinz, what have you done?"
"You know what I did, Herr General. I discovered a plot for mass murder and supply line interruption, all of which will be dangerous to the State if we do go to war."
"When we go to war," von Rusk corrected gently. "And you know what I mean, Colonel. I know what you did, even though you were kind enough to say I had no foreknowledge of it."
Stroebel shrugged. "I analyze. I study. I predict. I predict that if this plot goes unchecked, it will destroy us." He paused, said more softly. "And if it does not allow our enemies to destroy us, then it will surely destroy us from within."
Their boots, clicking in sync, echoed sharply down the corridor as they walked in silence for several long moments. Finally, von Rusk grunted and said, "And what do you suppose the Chancellor will say when he reads that it's his own Gestapo that is behind this plot to kill tens of thousands of German citizens -- deport them to death camps or work them to death as slave labor?"
Stroebel stopped; von Rusk took a step more, then stopped, also, and turned to face his protégé; they were out of earshot of the guards posted in the corridor. Stroebel spoke quietly, nonetheless. "I imagine he will either be enraged and order that weasel, Himmler, to be arrested. Or..." He trailed off, looked at his old friend and half-smiled.
"Or it will be your head on the chopping block," von Rusk finished the sentence.
"Those are the likely scenarios. But I'm an analyst, not a policy maker -- I had no choice but to bring this out into the open. I can't worry about what the consequences will be."
"Of course," von Rusk murmured. With him in the lead, they started down the corridor again -- then he stopped and turned to face Stroebel once more. "Still -- I do recall that your wife and daughter are in Switzerland, are they not?"
"And they will stay there, Mein General, until they get a specifically worded message from me." Stroebel smiled and shrugged. "I guess I can worry a little bit. I must protect those things I care most about, General -- my family and my country."
von Rusk nodded, reached out and patted Stroebel on the shoulder. "I wish we had more like you -- and less like them," he nodded in the direction the Chancellor and his deputy had gone. "It would be a different world."
Stroebel just patted the old man's hand and said, "We all do what we must."
When it seemed there was nothing more to be said, they walked on in silence.
The Bread of Life
by John E. Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt
John 6:24-35
When the INNS shelter program for the homeless started in Kenosha, I signed up for the training to be a volunteer. After I was trained, I was assigned a three-hour shift on a Sunday night at Lord of Life Lutheran Church, several blocks up the street from my own congregation. My shift was to be from 8:00 till 11:00 P.M. I helped to register the homeless persons as they arrived. Each person received a foam pad for a mattress, a small pillow, a sheet, and a blanket. After they had received their gear, we took them into the fellowship hall where they were to sleep on the floor. There was a row of tables and chairs dividing the room. Men slept on one side and women and children on the other. No children registered that evening, but one young woman was in the late stages of pregnancy. Before my shift was through her labor pains had started and an ambulance had been called to take her to the hospital.
In all, about 25 persons came to the shelter on that cold November evening. Most of them were young men in their twenties and thirties. It was evident that they all knew each other, probably because they had sheltered together before on the street and in the churches after the INNS program began. A few of the men were quiet and kept to themselves but several of them gathered around a large African-American man named Bill, who seemed to be a kind of leader in the group. They shared a warm camaraderie that was a joy to behold. They did not have homes and, in most cases, jobs, but they had each other, and they clearly enjoyed one another's company.
About 10:00 P.M., I went into the kitchen to make popcorn and to distribute snacks that had been provided by members of the churches participating in the program. Almost everyone came to get a cookie and a cup of coffee and then went back to the table where some of the men were engaged in a game of cards. Bill brought out an apple pie he said he had purchased from among the day-old items at one of the bakeries. He cut the pie up and began to distribute pieces to all of his friends. I stood there watching hungrily, hoping he might offer me a piece too. I felt guilty about my feelings, because I knew I would be going home in an hour and I could have anything I wanted to eat out of our family's well-stocked pantry.
I stood there looking on, envious of their fellowship as I wallowed in my suburban yuppie angst. Bill must have sensed my hunger, because just then he looked up and asked if I would like to have a piece of pie. I eagerly said yes and quickly joined him and the others at the table. It felt very good to be included in their group. As I ate my pie and joined in the conversation, I became aware that we were sharing what our Lord Jesus called "the bread of life," and I knew I was in his presence.
from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit: 62 Stories for Cycle B 0-7880-0817-X (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 1996), pp. 154-155.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 5, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
