S.S.Central

This fiction is based on the life of Augustin Rösch, S.J. by Roman Bleistein. Cut and paste this wikipedia url for photo:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustin_R%C3%B6sch 

He lay shackled to the thin cot, unable to move, his face crammed against the wall. His thoughts drifted to the day before when he had been sentenced. The charges were, “Subversion and Anti-government Activities.” They were untrue.

“Don’t pay attention to the news,” he’d told his parishioners. “The secular press isn’t reliable.” Then he’d read the Bishop’s letter from the pulpit asking the people to keep their children in parish schools. The Gestapo came the same day to pick him up. He wasn’t surprised. They’d taken Father Michael a few weeks earlier.

The sergeant who arrested him treated him gently. He was a parishioner and was distressed by his orders to pick up priests. In the early days of the Nazi movement, he had come to confession agonizing over his career as public servant. “I don’t know what to do,” he’d said. “If I don’t carry out orders . . . my wife, my children; what will happen to them?”

“Work with the system,” Augustin had encouraged. “God can use you for good.” Perhaps this was why Augustin’s Breviary lay on a small table at his head, though he couldn’t reach it. Lying there he felt horribly alone and uncomfortable; he whispered an “Our Father.” Before he was able to finish the prayer, he felt a warm breath near his ear in the pre-dawn blackness. A low voice breathed, “Father, would you like Communion?”

The question made his hair stand on end. His stomach churned from the bad joke. It would be like the S.S. to pull something like this, he thought. He faked sleep, waiting tensely for a blow, or something. The voice came again, more hastily this time. “Pater Augustin, I’m Doctor Bauer. I do what I can here among the prisoners.”

“I thought no contact with prisoners is permitted,” ventured the priest nervously.

“That’s why I must leave,” Bauer answered, his voice tight. “I will bring Communion tomorrow morning.” Then he was gone.

Suddenly the dark seemed darker and Augustin lay wondering if he had dreamt the incident. A small hope crept into his being, but he shoved it aside, afraid of disappointment. Maybe this had been arranged to soften him for further interrogations, he decided. He lay stiff unable to turn because of his shackles which were intended to prevent suicide. Pinned to the cot, his side was sore. He wanted to relieve the pain. Trying to sleep again, he thought of the puzzling visit.

The cell grayed with dawn, and the priest heard the crisp clack of a guard’s boots on concrete. A cold light clicked on in the cell. He squeezed his eyes shut against its brightness, as he felt a pair of hands remove the shackles. He sat up rubbing his wrists. The guard said curtly, “This isn’t a church.” Taking the priest’s prayer book from the table the guard said, “You won’t need this.”

When the man left, Augustin looked around the small cell. No other prisoners had been brought in during the night, but he guessed that the room, Spartan as it was, was only a temporary holding cell. Wanting to stretch his limbs, he shakily rose to his feet. His joints ached with every step but became more limber after he had paced back and forth a few times. The cell door stood ajar. His captors seemed aware that he would not venture beyond it.

The priest began praying to fill the time. He managed three Rosaries before the guard returned to lead him to the bathroom and then to the mess line, where he received a ration of thin soup. His contact with other prisoners was shrouded in silence. He saw that most of them were emaciated, and shivering from the morning chill in their thin striped uniforms. Augustin searched their faces wondering if Dr. Bauer were among them, but the guard pushed him forward yelling, “Schnell!” He noticed furtive glances from some of the prisoners who seemed to recognize him as a cleric. “Eyes down or you won’t eat today!” the guard hissed at them.

Returning to his cell, Augustin paced again wondering about the morning visitor. The pre-dawn encounter had been too short and surreal, so he forced the memory aside. His thoughts shifted to his parish, to Father Franziskus and Father Josef. He hoped they wouldn’t worry over him, but knew they would, because even he was still carrying Father Michael in his heart. He stopped pacing when a dizzy spell hit. The thin soup had left him unsatisfied, and he felt weak, so he lay down on the cot.

The empty room with its foreboding silence wore on his nerves. He wished he had his Breviary. He tried to reconstruct the prayers, but with no paper or pencil for writing, he found himself repeating some prayers and unable to complete others. It bothered him that the prayers he had said for more than twenty years could elude him like this.

He wanted to nap, but sleep wouldn’t come. He began to notice sounds. First he heard footsteps, but they passed his cell. Distant laughter drifted through the door, military men chortling over a joke. Toward evening, as daylight dimmed in the room, he heard the muffled clang of a church bell somewhere near the camp. More thoughts crowded in, and he began to walk back and forth again saying his evening Angelus. It was hard having nothing to do. He was accustomed to serving and felt useless. He slumped on the cot again, and noticed a fly crawling fitfully up the far wall. He watched it jerk here and there, take a turn around the room, and alight again in almost the same spot. When the light went out, his tension slowly unwound and he fell asleep. Fitfully he drifted in and out of haunting fears, before he finally relaxed into a deep slumber.

It wasn’t a noise that made him start, it was the warmth of another body in the room. He’d slept so well that Augustin hadn’t heard the man enter. “Who?”he wondered bristling with renewed fear and lying perfectly frozen on the cot. His unspoken question was answered, “I’ve brought Jesus.”

“Doctor Bauer?” he shot back hopefully.

“Yes,” Bauer answered. “They’re moving you north today.”

“I thought . . .” started Augustin.

“No use to think in a place like this,” quipped the doctor. The priest could sense the man’s nearness and felt for his arm. The doctor, groping with his hand, pressed the Host into Augustin’s palm, “He will help you on your journey.” Dr. Bauer was gone as soundlessly as he’d come. The priest sat in the dark a sole tear rolling down his cheek as he consumed the host. He wondered how many such men were in these camps to assist prisoners. He would find out soon enough.

. . .to be continued next Tuesday