Mighty Fortress

Mighty Fortress Part 1

Though his stomach writhed, Pastor Gottlieb closed the Epiphany service with his usual benediction. Blessing the brown-shirted men in his church seemed sacrilegious. It took an effort of will to remember that even the stormtoopers who had overrun Austria last spring were God's children, however iniquitous they might be.

He dutifully shook hands with all the worshipers as they departed, even the ones in Nazi uniforms. Then he went back inside, blowing warmth into his hands and rubbing their touch from his skin.

Behind him, the sexton closed the arched oaken doors with a resounding thud. Together, they returned to the sanctuary to extinguish the candles in the two tall, wrought-iron candelabra flanking the altar.

The Mighty Fortress Church of Christ was a gothic structure of gray stone and leaded glass. Its centuries-old vaulted ceiling covered a sanctuary full of dark, carved-oak pews that dated back almost to the days of Martin Luther.

While the sexton proceeded with his task, Gottlieb stopped in the aisle.

Four people remained in the rear pew. Gottlieb had noticed during the service how awkward they seemed—unfamiliar with the order of worship. Perhaps they were Catholic. Rumor had it the Nazis were now rounding up Catholics along with the Jews. And the Negroes. And the Trade Unionists and the Gypsies.

He half expected to be next.

"May I help you?"

The young man rose, a black fedora in his hand. He was about ten years younger than Gottlieb, thirty or so, thin and pale with dark hair and a narrow nose. His blue-gray eyes were wide. "Begging your pardon, Father, but we—" He choked.

"I'm not a priest. You may call me Pastor."

The young man, a woman presumably his wife, a little boy leaning against his mother's ribs, and an elderly woman—every one of them radiated fear. Whatever had caused such tortured expressions likely needed to be discussed in private.

He shot a glance over his shoulder. Except for the sexton, the room was vacant.

"Come to my office." He showed them to the tiny room down the hall from the narthex. There, he offered the old woman the one side chair. She was small, and thin. He was nearly six feet tall, and her head only came to the middle of his chest. Her back was bent with age. White hair showed beneath her small black hat. So frail.

He hung up his cassock and stole. Then he pulled his desk chair around for the trim young woman. She looked a little younger than her husband. Her cream-colored hat with a tan hatband topped a chic lavender suit. She wore her tawny hair in a snood the color of her hat. Her hands trembled as they worried along the hem of her jacket.

The boy, five or six years old, had a soft, round face and hazel eyes like his mother. He stood beside her chair, clutching her arm.

"Now, what can I do for you?"

"We were evicted from our apartment," the husband said. "We need a place to stay." A crack in his voice betrayed his stiff shoulders.

"Evicted? Why?"

"I—"

"Everyone was evicted." The old woman muttered. "The building looted, things dumped in the street like so much garbage..."

A cold burning ran through Gottlieb like a sword. He quivered. Stormtroopers had been in his church just moments ago. He rubbed his hands again, the ghost of their touch suddenly prickling uncomfortably.

The young man continued. "We need a place to hide until I can arrange passage to Switzerland."

Gottlieb wished he had kept his chair. He sank against the edge of his desk as his heart twisted. "You're Jewish."