Stories from this day 80 years ago convinced me that I had to write The Sower of Black Field.
I’ll be honest. In the beginning, I was a skeptic of WWII-era Germans. All my high school and college history lessons skimmed the time period, and when it came to understanding the attitudes of average Germans in the Third Reich, the correct answer on the test was, “They were brainwashed and fatally loyal to a madman with an appetite for destruction.” Then I spoke with the Schwarzenfelders and pondered the powerful spirituality they absorbed from Fr. Viktor. I realized that this town completely differed from everything I had learned in history classes.
As a Passionist, Fr. Viktor encouraged parishioners to see the Crucified Christ in all who suffer, all who are neglected and alone, all who are marginalized by society—regardless of nation, race, or creed—and respond as if they were in the presence of Jesus Himself. When his parishioners looked upon skin and bone and stripes and tattered stars of David, what do you think they saw?
The poem below was written by Herta Hedy Arata. She and her mother Rosa were present in the town when SS men began death-marching Jewish prisoners through the streets. Hedy and Rosa were in the Gasthof Bauer (the local guest house) when an escapee stumbled in and wrenched a crowded barroom to silence. These two women did not number among Fr. Viktor’s flock, but the guest house owner, Georg Bauer, was a devout Catholic who regularly attended his sermons. He pushed back a wall of gawking people and set down a bowl of soup. His response to this sudden stranger inspired others—especially Rosa.
This poem demonstrates just one remarkable story from that day. Others equally profound are captured in The Sower of Black Field.
I realized that I HAD to write The Sower because history is far more nuanced than we expect. Things are rarely as black and white as we think. There are myriad grays in between.
TWISTED GLORY! †
What a sight
There stood this bony creature
Was he human?
Was he dead?
Was he alive?
Where had he come from?
How did he get here?
We were afraid to ask.
His eyes stared into nowhere
His shoulders were bent and made him small
His feet he dragged
Only slowly could he move forwards
In a trance he was reaching for the hands of “GOD”.
This is a true story.
Sixty years have passed
We were Germans
And World War II was over
This stranger came from prison
His cloth was white with gray stripes.
He was scary to look at
Dirty
And a shaved head
Yet
We all felt compassion
Only later had we been told
He had escaped a Nazi concentration camp.
How could he escape the Nazis?
Where was their nearest camp?
The rumors we heard
Were they real?
If so
Who could do such atrocity to their fellow men?
The Guesthouse was our hangout
The center of attention was this skeleton
He did not speak
Showed no emotion
I think he balanced himself between future and death.
There was silence
We stood like statues
Who would break the spell?
Some soup was placed for him on one of the tables
He clutched it
As if a dog was hanging on to a tossed bone.
Now the silence was broken
We could hear a clink
When the spoon was hitting the bowl
My mother begged him to eat slowly
She also embraced him
Like a mother would do.
What was it about this stranger?
His garment told us
He was a condemned man
Even so
We did not sense any danger
Had he asked us
We would have given him anything we had.
Our town was like a beehive
Explanations were whispered in every store
Evidently
This poor soul was riding on our railroad
When one of the Allied planes bombed it
And left over one hundred thirty* people dead.
Hitler had concentration camps all over the nation
The SS could not kill the inmates fast enough
The Americans came close
To transport all was the only solution
Like cattle
They were moved to the next slaughterhouse.
This train passed our town in darkness
Few bombs dropped and there were the dead
I found it strange
Here came the Allies to free us
Who did they kill?
As you see
The most innocent.
War
I will never understand it
To kill
What a sin
Every twenty-five years we see another
And who will enjoy the action?
The one who has the need
His name will be written in future history books.
One of the camps was Flossenbürg
My husband saw it at first hand
He remembers the smell
The ovens and the piles of human flesh
Also the inmates
Who were waking up from this insane hell.
Today
Sixty years later
Thousands of people passed me by
And yet
I am thinking of this one single person
Who stood in silence
Not knowing himself
If he was alive or dead.
To me he has been a symbol
In my thoughts he grew to be ten feet tall
His garb of gray and white
Stood for lost generations
Also for the one hundred thirty bodies we buried
In our small town of Schwarzenfeld.
Herta-Hedy-Arata
January 30, 2006
† Hedy shared this version of her poem with us in 2006. An abridged version appears in To Whom It May Concern.
* The estimates of the death toll from the train station massacre vary from one source to another. The historically accepted number is 140.
Useful reminders
This post is part of a month-long series reflecting upon historical events that contributed to my debut historical fiction novel, The Sower of Black Field. Visit the “Latest News” area on my website for a recap »
The Sower of Black Field is available in paperback, eBook / Kindle, and audiobook on Amazon. Get your copy »
This post includes a poem from Herta Hedy Arata’s book, To Whom It May Concern. Hedy’s work is half poetry, half memoir, and wholly a fascinating read for anyone with an interest in WWII history. Get your copy »
