The Passion Players in War-Time

THE little train chugged its way up the valley. There was but one passenger car. Half of it, upholstered in red velvet, served as first class; the other half, with wooden benches, as third. Few people go to Oberammergau in war-time. In the car was a soldier bound for home on a three weeks’ leave, and several women. They were all silent. Outside, the valley shone in the warm sunshine. The hills were velvety green. The soft cool air came in at the windows. Little birds perched on branches and sang lustily. Bright patches of flowers still blossomed by cottage doorsteps. Old earth did its best to be beautiful. It blossomed and sang and tried to offset man’s destruction. But the earth’s cheer was not contagious. The people in the train were grimly still. A dark monster had laid its hand upon their hearts.

Silently we got down at the small station. There were no waiting carriages or push-carts, no smiling people, no eager hotel porters to carry the luggage. A boy on a bicycle slipped my bag over the handle-bars of his wheel and sped off to a nearby hotel. The soldier from the train walked slowly ahead of us. A weary woman standing in a doorway greeted him with a wan smile. The news of his return spread. A few women and children gathered to bid the warrior welcome, but there was no laughter — no gay words. One sleeve of the man’s coat was pinned up and flapped idly. The eyes of the women were hard and dry.

We pushed open the hotel door. A young boy came from the office. Yes, we could have lunch, he said in answer to our questions; and disappeared into the kitchen.

The house was weirdly still. There were no steps on the stairs. A young woman came from the kitchen. She was grim and sullen. She seemed loath to give us food. We sat patiently at the table. Finally it came — black bread, tea, and marmalade. It was unappetizing. The marmalade was probably made from carrots. Our stomachs were far from satisfied; we begged for an egg. She hesitated.

' If you have your egg now, you can’t have another for a week,’ she said.

We were reckless. The future seemed remote. We ordered eggs and ate ravenously. From the dining-room window we gazed across the little square at a neighboring inn. There, too, all was still. The tables and chairs sat jauntily on the sidewalk, but they were empty and dusty. One old man occupied a favorite corner and clutched his beer-mug; but his eyes were vacant, his thoughts elsewhere. We tried to draw our waitress into conversation, but she answered in monosyllables.

‘The town is sad,’ we averred.

‘Why should n’t it be?’ she retorted. ‘We’ve lost much.’

‘How many men have gone to war?’ we asked.

‘All under forty-five; five hundred and fifty out of a population of eighteen hundred.’

We paused a moment; it seemed brutal to go on, but we wanted information.

‘And the dead and wounded?’ we asked.

‘There were forty killed and fortyeight wounded the first year. I don’t know the number now.’

‘Will there ever be another Passion Play?’ we asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘How can I tell? Some of the players and musicians have lost an arm or a leg, and others are dead. The town no longer has any money.’

We pushed back our chairs and went out into the golden sunshine. No one moved about the streets. It was like a village swept by plague and deserted. But the buildings were as before. There were the fascinating, gayly decorated houses, each possessing a unique painting or design, as though an artist had strayed by and, having no canvas, had used the housefronts.

And, whichever way one turned, there were wooden crosses bearing the image of a suspended Christ. They stood out on the walls of the houses. They occupied crevices and niches. At the town fountain, water flowed from the bleeding hands of a Christ.

War has been a special disaster to Oberammergau. It has dealt a blow at spiritual as well as physical welfare. It is an anomaly for Passion Players to be out killing their fellowmen. Anton Lang, the recent Christus, was spared this ordeal. He was too old for military service. But I did not find him at home. Each day he journeys to a neighboring town and works as a carpenter for his country.

Everywhere Oberammergau seemed to be going to seed. The great wooden structure used as a theatre was locked. We were told that in the afternoon some one would be fetched to show it to us. There were no horses or cows in evidence. In one yard a few carefully guarded ducks quacked, and in another some chickens strutted up and down; otherwise there was no sign of animate life. The little gardens were already dry and barren. In the two small stores there was little for sale. The food-supply consisted chiefly of fruit — apples and grapes and green vegetables. Nowhere did I see potatoes, meat, bread, butter, or cheese. Small portions of these were rationed out on certain days in the week, on the presentation of food-cards, but never displayed.

In one shop-window some packages of sweet chocolate and a plate of small cakes caught my eye. My stomach clamored loudly. I hurried in, and slipped a cake into my mouth. It contained an overpowering amount of ginger. The other ingredients were queer and indefinable. Two cakes completely destroyed hunger. The sweet chocolate was of two varieties — one a German brand, the other Swiss. Both kinds came in ten-cent-size packages. But the German ten-cent cake cost twenty-three cents, the Swiss forty. I bought one of each. A few mouthfuls of the German brand nauseated me. The chocolate may have been pure, but Heaven knows what substitute had been used for milk and sugar. The combined effect of the chocolate and cake was a consuming thirst. We hurried back to our hotel. Unthinkingly I ordered lemonade. The lemon was deliciously juicy, but there was no sugar. As a great concession, we secured one lump. We watched it sink down and melt in the bottom of a very tall glass; its sweetness was almost imperceptible. Fortunately my friend had some saccharine tablets, which can be secured only by a doctor’s order. She decided to sacrifice two to the cause. Never was lemonade so appreciated! But saccharine is not a good substitute for sugar: it has a disagreeable after-effect; it leaves the tongue thick and furry.

Again we started forth on our tour of inspection. By the side of one little house was a tiny yard inclosed by a fence. On a bench in the yard sat a young mother. At her feet a two-yearold baby played. The child was charming, with golden hair and blue eyes. We leaned on the fence and spoke to the mother. She greeted us joyfully, glad of this friendly diversion. ‘The baby looks well,’ we said; ‘evidently you can get milk for her?’

‘ A little,’ she answered. ‘ The ration, when one gets it, is a pint a day for children under six. No one older has any.’

‘But surely in the country the daily milk ration is easy to get,’ we protested.

A tragic look came into the mother’s eyes; she closed her lips firmly, and then she said, ‘Not always. A while ago there was no milk. I had money to pay for my share, but it was n’t to be had. The man up the road who has the cows was taking boarders. They were rich people from the city. They paid well and they got the milk. I took my baby up there one day. I showed her to those people. I told them they were robbing my little one. After that I got my allowance.’

We looked at the young mother with renewed respect. She had character. I pulled my Swiss chocolate from my pocket. I had already tasted it and found it the genuine article. I held out a good half-package to the baby. The little hand clutched it eagerly, and, with a gurgle of wild delight, she rushed to her mother’s knee and began a mad orgy. The mother’s face flushed, but she watched the child with pleasure.

We went back to the shop and bought up the remaining Swiss chocolate. Then we returned and gave it to the mother. Her eyes were moist with gratitude. She opened her heart to us.

‘It has been such a terrible time,’ she said. ‘My husband went to war before baby was born. He has never seen her. When my time came he tried to get leave, but just then there was a big drive. They would n’t let him come. She is my second child. We had a little son. He would be seven if he had lived. His father worshiped him. But a year ago he died. He had appendicitis. My husband was still in the trenches. I managed to get word to him, but it was no use. They would n’t let him come. Sometimes I think they don’t want the men to see the suffering at home. I wrote to my husband about our boy’s death. I think it must have broken his heart. He has got quite discouraged. In his last letter he said, “I would rather be buried with my son than fight more.” ’

We remained silent before such grief, but the mother felt our sympathy. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see my boy’s picture?’

Without waiting for an answer, she led us into her little house. It was very neat and sweet. The parlor was sumptuous in upholstered furniture. It was the home of a well-to-do mechanic. The mother’s pride in her home and children was evident. When we rose to go, we asked if there was much poverty in Oberammergau, and whether we could be of service.

There was glad assent in the woman’s eyes, as she said, ‘One of my neighbors is in great distress. Many of the people I hardly know. I’m a newcomer. My husband had never been here. I came for baby’s sake. I thought there would be milk in the country, but the neighbor I speak of has n’t enough to eat. It is very terrible.’

We asked to be taken to the neighbor. The mother picked up her baby and led us down a nearby country road. At a very short distance we came to an attractive cottage. It was very humble — a workingman’s house, but quaint and picturesque. It had a large yard inclosed by a fence. Flowers climbed up the house-walls and made the air fragrant. We pushed open the gate and walked in. The front door was wide open. At the entrance we paused. On one side was a kitchen and a fine-looking old German workingwoman bending over a stove. At the other side of the entrance toward the front was a parlor. The walls were papered; a piece of carpet was on the floor; the furniture was plain, but substantial. Curtains fluttered at the windows, and on the wall hung a crucifix. In the centre of the room was a babycarriage. In it was a very pale, still baby.

We entered and stood looking down at the little creature. The child was about two years old, but only half the size of the bonny baby the young mother held. As we watched, the little sleeper opened her eyes and a faint smile crept over the tiny face. There were blue circles under the eyes and blue veins showed through the transparent skin. I had still a square of Swiss chocolate. I slipped it into the little mouth. Her lips closed over it and my fingers joyfully. Then the grandmother came in from the kitchen. She touched the baby’s cheek lovingly.

‘She is very ill,’ she said, ‘but she does not complain, only she calls always for her father. It breaks our hearts. There is no longer any chance that he will come. He was my son. They said he was lost under Sperrfeuer [shell explosions]. He has never been heard from since.

We swallowed the lump in our throat and asked, ‘ What is the baby’s illness? ’

The proud old German woman hung her head. ‘We call it Englische Krankheit. She is so weak she cannot sit up. We cannot get milk. We have so little money. We try to live on potatoes, and tea ersatz [substitute].’

I took fifty marks from my pocket and put it in the woman’s hand. The gift was so sudden, so unexpected, that tears sprang from her eyes and streamed unheeded down her cheeks. The flood-gates of her pent-up anguish had been opened; she poured out her story.

‘Sometimes I think I cannot go on. I have sent six sons to the war. The baby’s father, my eldest, was blown to pieces. There was nothing left. The second has gone crazy. For three months he has been in an insane asylum. Sometimes I think I myself am going crazy. A third son was terribly wounded. One leg is much shorter than the other, but they sent him back to the front. The other three are fighting, one in Russia, one in Belgium, and one in the mountains. A letter came from the one in Belgium the other day. Oh, it was horrible! It said, “We are so hungry. Please, mother, send us some food! One day we had so little we divided a cigarette among three of us and ate it.” And I can send nothing. I have nothing. There is no food to send. And now they come for my seventh son, my youngest. He is only seventeen. They tell him, if he goes now, instead of later, he can choose where he will fight. But he shall not go; he is my last.’

I bit my lip and turned away. I had no courage left to face such suffering. I could see this cottage as it was in other days — the happiness, the prosperity, the mother with her seven sons, the neat wood-pile, the bountiful meals, the song, the laughter. I saw the eager preparation of this family for the Passion Play, their friendly entertainment of strangers, their concentration on a spiritual ideal, their struggle to create beauty. All this had been destroyed. Their fatherland had used them and thrown them on the scrap-heap. It had crushed out life and faith.

Two little children had crept into the door while we talked, a girl of four and a boy of six. They were the brother and sister of the baby in the carriage. They clung to their grandmother’s skirts. Their mother was in a neighboring city. She had been called to the bedside of her dying mother, the children’s other grandmother. This left this old woman in Oberammergau to fight her fight alone, to drive the wolf from the door, and care for her grandchildren.

Some money had been given me by the Christian Work Fund for starving children. Before I left I drew a check on this fund for one hundred and fifty marks. The proud old woman did not hesitate to take it. Probably never before had she accepted charity, but pride was as nothing when her children were hungry. I wanted to tell her to use it for milk. I feared with the morning a box would go to the hungry soldier-son in Belgium. But I had not the heart to deny her that pleasure.

As we passed the kitchen, we stepped in. Laundry work was in progress: a kettle of clothes steamed on the stove. Beside the boiler six potatoes simmered in a tiny pot. This was the only vestige of food visible. The grandmother apologized for not accompanying us down the road. She looked down at the big boots she was clumping about in, and flushed, and then said quite simply, —

‘They’re my son’s. I wear them to protect my feet. I have n’t any. There are n’t any shoes to be had.’

As soon as we were some distance from the cottage I turned to our guide. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘is the family so poor? With six sons fighting, there should be a good pension.’

Then it was that I learned of the defects in German organization. Wives are better cared for than mothers. A mother draws a pension only if the son is living at home and supporting the mother at the time he goes to war, and each additional son does not bring an extra pension. Occasionally an increase of six marks, or a dollar and a half, a month goes with every additional son. That is all. I also discovered that pensions are sometimes not paid. Pensions come from two sources, the national government and the town. A town may go bankrupt. Oberammergau is bankrupt. It has n’t a penny for pensions. This grandmother’s total income was twenty-four marks — six dollars — a month from the Kingdom of Bavaria, for one son. On that she lived. Six sons serving the fatherland, and in return she and her grandchildren were starving.

I longed to escape from Oberammergau. It had become unbearable. We hunted for a horse and wagon. At last we secured the one outfit in the town — an open landau, and a thin, wobbly horse. A shrunken old man — a grandfather — sat on the box. We said good-bye to our little mother and drove off. It was still early afternoon. The sun poured down on us. We wound in and out through the enchanting valley. Tall mountains rose on all sides, but their summits were enveloped in dense white clouds. The smell of hay floated to us. Occasionally we saw women reaping in a field. We passed an ancient monastery, but no friars worked about the grounds. Opposite the monastery was an inn, famous for its Kuchen and tea. The tables were dusty and empty, and we did not stop.

But as we neared Parten-Kirchen, signs of life grew apparent. The big summer hotels were all open; women in dainty dresses sat on the porches, or walked about the country roads. Occasionally a middle-aged man or a young boy was with them. It was like any mountain resort except for the stillness. There was no laughter, no hurrying steps, no gladness. It had the atmosphere of a country Sunday. I expected each moment to hear the church bells.

Our driver deposited us at a charming inn in the centre of the town. We paid him five dollars for the trip. The use of a horse in war-time is a luxury, and automobiles have vanished. Even among wealthy vacationers not one was to be seen. The inn had been well recommended. We decided to try our luck, and sat down at one of the whitecovered out-of-door tables. Boldly we ordered coffee and Kuchen. Presently it was set before us. A delicious and familiar, but almost forgotten odor came from the coffee-pot. I began to sniff. I touched the Kuchen with my finger. It was real. A cross between bread and cake, but made from real flour. There was a tiny bit of milk for the coffee, and a lump of sugar apiece. We ate slowly, steadily, silently, delightedly, until there was not a speck left. It was the only good coffee and Kuchen I had had in my entire trip through Germany. We wanted to order more, but were ashamed to.

Suddenly I remembered the mother and her seven sons. What right had these wealthy people out for a holiday to enjoy good food when poor people in the next town went hungry? Then I brought myself up with a turn. Had I a right to judge? In their place would I have been better? Would I have given my scanty food to the poor? But of one thing I was sure: if I had been poor and hungry, I would not have been content. No, assuredly not! And the poor of Germany are not content. Some day the wealthy who ate while the rest of the population went hungry will have to pay. The day of reckoning will come as surely as it did in the French Revolution.

We lingered at the table, loath to go. Should we stay over night for the sake of more coffee and Kuchen? In the end we resisted. As we went toward the station, the full beauty of the place burst upon us. White clouds circled about the mountains, occasionally bursting apart and revealing a snowcovered peak. A dancing river flowed under quaint bridges. Attractivelooking women sat in charming hotel tea-gardens. It might have been the end of a summer day at Lake Placid, except that Parten-Kirchen possessed qualities unknown to American mountain resorts. It had the charm and color of life in a foreign city, and possessed at the same time scenery of Alpine grandeur.

At the station there was the usual summer crowd bidding farewell to departing guests. But even here there was no tone of banter and cheer. Even here the horror of war was evident. Some farewells held tragedy. In the carriage next mine a fine sad-eyed young man in uniform was leaning from the train-window. Below him stood a young girl. Her hair had only recently gone up and her skirts been let down. She was as delicate and fresh as a budding flower. The shy sweetness and fragrance of youth enveloped her. She was closely guarded by an elder sister and mother. The young man in the carriage devoured her with his eyes. Finding that there was a brief delay in the train’s departure, he rushed back to the platform. He caught the girl’s hand in his. He tried to pull her a little apart from the others. Both hands closed over the little one he held. His eyes sought hers longingly. Then he snatched up the other hand and held both close to him. He was so hungry for the forbidden kiss! But mother and sister stood guard and he dared not, and the young thing before him did not understand. The tightly closed little petals quivered, the warmth of the sun was upon them; but convention and the mandates under which she moved held her fast. She did not raise her lips.

It was all I could do to keep from hurling the mother and sister to one side. The young man’s story was so plainly written on his face. To-morrow he would go forth into battle. His eyes said that he feared he would never come back. All the things of his heart he wanted her to understand. This great moment would never come again, and its full glory was being denied him.

The whistle blew, the train began to move. The young man leaped to his place. Unashamed tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He leaned far out of the window and stretched out his arms. My own heart was in my throat. The day had been so full of tragedy; the whole earth was an abode of sorrow. Love and beauty were being suppressed, frozen. It was as though the cold hands of winter had been laid heavily on the land.

But as I looked, suddenly I saw that the sun was setting. The entire valley was flooded with golden light, the white clouds had all turned pink and were scattering; and far above them in uncovered, naked splendor shone the snow-covered peaks. The heavens seemed to be opening and revealing inner beauty, and suddenly into my mind flashed this line, —