FREEDOM.
It was Easter Eve in the year 1523. After the solemn hush of Good
Friday, a bustling activity stirred the little community. The work
was done in silence, it is true, for the day on which the body of our
Lord lay in the sepulchre, demanded quiet and reverence; but all
hands were busy with preparations worthy of the highest festival of
the Christian Church. Groups of nuns were binding wreaths of moss
and cedar-branches, with which to deck the images of the Saints and
the life-size statue of the blessed Virgin, which occupied the most
prominent place in the chapel. Others were engaged about the altar,
which on Good Friday had been stripped of all ornament. They covered
it with a cloth of white silk embroidered in gold, and supplied the
candlesticks with fresh tapers, which Leonhard Koppe had lately
provided. Others were building up in the altar recess a
representation of the Resurrection,--the grave, surrounded by the
prostrate watchers, and the Saviour issuing from its portal, bearing
aloft the banner of victory.
The forenoon passed amid these preparations.
The mid-day meal was eaten in silence, for the strict fast permitted
but scanty refreshment. During the afternoon the convent was silent
as the grave. The nuns, weary in body and mind from the exertions of
Holy Week, rested in their cells. Since Palm Sunday, they had spent
but few hours in their beds, having been engaged day and night in
praying, fasting, singing, confessing and hearing mass. Many may
therefore have rejoiced in the blessed Easter day,--not only because
our Lord was risen from the dead for the saving of the world, but
also because the tired and enfeebled body might once more assert its
rights, and the soul awaken from its spiritual weariness to a new
life.
Slowly the twilight fell upon the earth. Once more the bell called
to prayers, and the stewardess summoned the nuns to the thin, gray,
Lenten soup. Then the last sound died away in the convent. The
tired devotees stretched their aching limbs upon their beds, to find
in slumber a little strength for the last effort,--the Easter
vigil,--that night service, which with mysterious premonition leads
the soul upward, step by step, to the supreme moment, when the first
ray of the rising sun startles the soft murmurs into jubilant praise,
and frow the full choir, accompanied by trumpets and cymbals, the
Easter hymn bursts forth:
"Christ the Lord is risen
From His martyr prison,
Let us all rejoice in this,
Christ our joy and solace is.
Kyrie eleison."
* * * * * * * * * *
The night was damp and cold. A bitter wind drove the ragged clouds
across the face of the moon, whose pale beams threw ghostly shadows
upon the earth. In the forest the trees groaned and creaked, their
branches tossed by the gale.
A great wagon, loaded with barrels, moved slowly along the road
leading from Torgau. When the clouds did not hide the moon, three
muffled figures, sitting immovable upon the wagon, became visible.
Near the convent they left the highway. One of the men sprang down
and took the horses by the bridle.
"Do you know the road, neighbor?" came a whisper from within.
"Have no fear," was the answer. "I know every path. Follow me,
until we reach the water. There we will leave the wagon among the
alders. You, Caspar, stay with the horses and care for them."
Caspar was Leonhard's nephew. When they reached the pond they
stopped. Caspar fed and watered the horses, while the others
carefully groped their way through the bushes, Koppe taking his
friend's hand, to help him because of his uncertain eyesight, and
because the pale rays of the moon, which flickered through the trees,
threw but scant light upon their path.
"Do you see yonder garden wall?" whispered Koppe. "I will creep on
it to the spot, where it meets the building. There, where the light
is shining, is Katharine von Bora's cell. I am glad to see that all
the other windows are dark. My supposition was correct,--the nuns
are sleeping until midnight. But it is not yet ten o'clock. Let us
see if all is safe. The abbess is still awake," he grumbled, when
they had reached the eastern front of the convent. "The venerable
ghost has no peace, and often startles the nuns by her sudden
appearances. She is a strange woman, and in her dealings with me,
has given me much trouble by her suspicion and avarice. In her own
eyes she is a saint, whose good works are so many that they reach up
into Heaven, like the tower of Babel. Therefore she has much
confidence and courage, and fears nothing, save the screech-owl,
whose cry so grates upon her nerves, that in the Springtime she pays
a golden florin for every owl's egg that is brought her."
Tommitzsch murmured something that sounded like a succession of
maledictions. Suddenly he stopped, and seized his friend by the arm.
"I am not going any further with you."
"Why not?" asked Koppe, in dismay.
Tommitzsch replied in his imperturbable manner: "You can forego my
help in your kidnapping business. I can imitate the cry of the
screech-owl," he explained, "as well as that of the hawk and the cat.
When the time has come, I will be the bird that turns her bravery
into fear. In the meantime, you do your work."
"Truly, you are a wise counsellor," said Koppe, tapping his friend on
the shoulder. "I am glad that I sought your assistance. It wants
but a few minutes to ten."
The men grasped each other by the hand, each with hearty good wishes
for the success of the other.
With redoubled caution, Koppe stole along the wall, until he reached
a spot where a few crumbling stones gave him a foothold. Here he
climbed up, and softly crept along the top. Suddenly, a sharp cry,
piercing the silence, reached his ear. He started in alarm, but soon
smiled at his fears.
"The screech-owl," he said to himself. The cry was repeated at
intervals, and in the meantime, Koppe had reached the lighted window.
He rose to his feet,--but alas! it was beyond the reach of his
outstretched hand. He had been deceived in the height. How was he
to make himself heard? Calling was out of the question. And how
would they descend? He struck with his fist upon the wall, but the
sound of his blows died away against the solid masonry. Then he
bethought him of a key which he carried in his pocket. With this he
tapped, and it rang clear against the stones.
Hark! They are moving overhead. The window is softly opened and a
head is thrust out.
"Your rescuer is here!" he whispered, and the answer came back, "God
be praised!"
The head was withdrawn, soon to re-appear, and Koppe heard the words:
"Wait, until we fasten the rope to the casement."
The complaint he was about to utter, died upon his lips. Woman's wit
had planned with better forethought, than manly wisdom. In less than
a minute the end of the rope struck his head,--another minute, and
the first nun stood beside him.
"Creep carefully forward," he directed the trembling girl, "I will
receive the others."
Again the screech-owl shrieked. No other sound was heard, save the
creaking of the branches in the wind. In wild haste the nuns slipped
down, and crept along the wall. Koppe followed. When they came to
the breach, he sprang down and assisted them to ascend. A suppressed
cry of delight was heard, but Koppe angrily checked the guilty one.
"The time for rejoicing has not yet come! Make haste, and follow!"
The wagon was soon reached, and the merchant hid the nuns between the
barrels, covering them with straw, until not a sign of them was
visible. Then he hastened to relieve his companion from his post.
They climbed into the wagon, and the horses were urged forward.
Dark and shadowy, like a gigantic sarcophagus, the convent lay behind
them. Not a light gleamed from the windows, even that of the abbess
being dark. The effect of the screech-owl's voice had not been
miscalculated, and the old woman had doubtless sought refuge beneath
her covers from the gruesome cries of the bird of death.
The nuns crouched motionless in their hiding place--afraid to utter a
sound. Like a mill-stone the reaction from the past dangers, and the
fear of new ones weighed upon their spirits. Thus they journeyed for
more than an hour. Suddenly the wagon stopped, and a harsh voice
called to the driver: "What have you here?"
"Herring barrels," was Koppe's short and decided answer. "Do not
detain me unnecessarily, friend--my limbs are stiff with the cold."
The man climbed up at the side of the wagon, and gropingly examined
its contents.
"Pass on!" he cried, and the horses hurried forward at a more rapid
pace.
Suddenly there was a stirring and a whispering among the straw, Koppe
and Tommitzsch now and then adding a word of caution. The nuns would
fain have risen from their stifling shelter, and thanked the men who
had dared so much for their deliverance, but they forbade it. After
a few hours, when the sky grew rosy in the east, and the first fiery
ray of the Easter sun broke upon the earth, new life stirred the nuns
with irresistible force, and as with one voice, the exultant strain
burst forth from their lips:
"Christ the Lord is risen
From His martyr prison,
Let us all rejoice in this,
Christ our joy and solace is,
Kyrie eleison."
Leonhard had lifted his hand with a warning gesture, but it sank at
his side. His eyes filled with tears as he listened; the pure voices
had a heavenly ring. Nor did he resist, when the nuns pressed around
him, took his hands, and overwhelmed him and his companions with
their gratitude.
In the holy fervor of her enthusiasm, Katharine von Bora stretched
forth her hands and cried: "Easter! Easter! Thou name full of joy
and of life! Hear our resurrection hymn, thou Saviour, who hast had
mercy on us. We were dead, and behold, we live! The grave has
yielded up its prey, and with the golden Easter sun, life sends us
its greeting! Hallelujah! O thou world, from which I fled, receive
me once more; for vanity and delusion is the sanctity of convent
life. Receive me, O world, shone upon by God's sun, and peopled with
living beings! In thee, more worthily than in the nun's habit will I
serve my God! Lord of the world, Thy kingdom is wide, Thou wilt
doubtless have in it a place for poor Katharine!"