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“It’s only this: I’ve never seen God. Why should I credit Him for a blessing, or leave Him any blame? Men are quite capable of destroying the world on their own, as we can plainly see. They don’t need any help from above.”
What has gone before drags behind. As we move through our lives, our workaday habits, we trail our ghostly wakes.
Herr Hitler had won the hearts of the people—or enough people, at any rate, for him to plant his boots in the Reichstag, where he stacked kindling for his fire. Desperate hearts are easy to secure. When her children are starving, a woman will believe any vile promise you whisper in her ear. When a man is cornered, he will trust you if you tell him he cannot sin.
Look where we found ourselves, reeling, shame-faced Germany, before we even knew we were in danger.
That’s the nature of darkness. It comes at the end of every day, predictable as the striking of a clock’s chime, even in the heart of summer, when the light is full and lingering. You can never quite escape the night.
How are we to know when our lives are good and when we are blessed, if we have no sorrow, no deprivation for comparison’s sake?
In the name of making Germany great, we have forced our men to choose between the lives of innocents and their own wives and children.
“It’s not your fault—never blame yourself. But think of the children, Elisabeth. We have a duty to keep them safe.”
“Men cry, son. All the time. Never be ashamed of your feelings. Your feelings are your compass. They guide you to what’s right.”
“I know they’ll learn the truth,” she says, “sooner or later. I know they’ll be back. You don’t think it was easy for me—do you?—to leave my children.” He is almost weeping now. “Then why did you do it? Why return?” “You are my husband. We will stay together, no matter what happens.”
We are fools to think the past remains in the past. History is our guilty conscience; it will not let us rest. Perhaps we will never learn the origin of this sickness, but we understand its cure.
