A Poem and a Story

Just what it sounds like. From the annals:

Misty Nights, Ghost of Love

The cool and misty autumn night
Has fallen close around me
The mists and breezes brush my face
And I think of her beside me
A ghost that never was nor will
My lover come to be

The eerie lamps along the street
Pour dirty yellow through the dark
The pureness of the night defiled
By a smould’ring, dampened spark
Of dreams shared over scotch and pipe
Of an empty, selfish lark

Thoughts of other damp, cool days
Flit about inside my mind
As if the mists had brought with them
Pictures I could not rewind
And images of pain and joy
And memories of being blind

Oh ghost of love, my pretty lass
Leave me, run and hide
Let me remember misty nights
Walking with you by my side
And if nostalgia threatens, please
Don’t dare to wish we’d tried

The Cathedral

By David Korff

“You play beautifully.”

Startled, the young novice turned on the piano bench. “Bitte?” she said when she had recovered.

“You play beautifully.” She looked confused. He tried again, this time in broken German.

She smiled and dropped her eyes. A strand of golden hair fell from under her wimple. “Danke,” she said.

They were alone in the old Cathedral. The old stone walls did little to keep out the cold, but at least they weren’t out in the driving wind and the blinding snow. The young American had sat listening to her play for some time. The delicate music reminded him of warm firesides and the comfort of home. Then he thought of Kerri. A knot of pain formed in his chest, and his hand went to the letter that he had received that day. He didn’t read it; he didn’t need to, not anymore.

After he had received the letter he had begged his CO for leave to walk around town. Nobody would be moving in this storm anyway. Sometime later, and well after dark, he had found himself standing on the front steps of the old Cathedral. Carefully he had stepped inside, and there she had been, her eyes closed as she listened to the music she was playing, her face glowing with a peace he had not seen since coming to Europe.

He sat down and lost himself in the music, watching as the light from a hundred candles flickered across her face. He marveled that the girl could play in this cold.

After their initial exchange they sat silent for a long while. Finally she ventured upon her limited English. “What are you doing here?”

He thought about the question. What was he doing here? He wasn’t the kind to just walk into churches at night. Had he been running from something? No, if he had been running he would have stolen a pint from the Lieutenant’s stash and gotten drunk. He had wanted to think. Not wanting to give a long explanation that she wouldn’t understand, he fell back on the obvious. “Ich bin Soldat.”

She looked at his uniform and nodded. “Natürlich, aber ich habe gemeint…” she stopped, confused. She could not figure out how to say it in English. He nodded in understanding. Walking over toward the piano bench he pulled the letter from his shirt pocket. Handing it to her, he said, “Meine Frau…” but he didn’t know how to explain the rest.

She took the letter and looked at it, as if trying to read what it said. When she looked back at him she saw that he was trying not to let his pain show. She did not know what had happened. She did not know what he had seen and suffered or what terrible news this letter held for him, but she pitied him. She forgot for a moment her own miseries, and the pain that had led her to where she was now. She turned and set the letter on the piano. Then she began to play the song that her mother had taught her years ago. She knew it had no meaning for him, but she hoped that somehow he would know what it meant to her, and understand.

As he stood listening to her play, a ghost flitted through his mind. He knew that song…his grandmother hand sung it to him when he was a child, and he remembered hearing his mother humming it the night that his little sister lay dying. He didn’t remember any of the words, but it was a peaceful melody. She began to sing in German, and the language that had always sounded so harsh to him before did not sound so now. He fell back into a nearby pew and listened. The long months spent fighting their way across France had taken their toll. He was tired, weary of war, and now he was broken and homeless in a way that the war could never have made him. He leaned forward and rested his head on the bench in front of him, losing himself in memories.

When she stopped playing he looked up to see her watching him. He suddenly realized that she was very young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. It had only been a few years since he himself was that old, but those few years seemed like ages now. He wondered why she was here, wearing the habit of a novice and playing the piano at night in a frozen old cathedral. She should be at home, by a warm fireside, telling her mother about the cute new boy at school or sleeping peacefully and dreaming of whatever girls dream of. This war had turned both their lives upside down. Her parents were probably dead, he decided, and the poor girl had nowhere to go so she had run to the church that she had known from earliest childhood.

He thought about Kerri again and his throat tightened. Life was not fair. He had gone off to fight, to give his life if necessary. He did not want to die; he wanted to live and return to her arms, but he knew also that soldiers die. Yes, soldiers die…but here he was – cold and tired, but alive. There was almost an irony in it, but it was a tearful, sickening irony that he could not smile at.

He looked back up at her, and in the dim light of the candles she could see the tears glistening in his eyes. She saw his face tighten as he tried to hold them back, and then she knew what had happened to his wife. She knew without being told that the pain in his face and eyes was the pain she had felt when her parents died. The soldier was alone now. He had nothing to return to when the war was over. For him, she knew, the end of the war meant a return to a cold, empty house, and to a grave somewhere in a lonely cemetery. He wept then, silently.

Quietly she arose and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I come back,” she whispered. She left him there and went to the small apartment at the back of the cathedral where her uncle slept. She touched his shoulder gently and he awakened. She did not have to say anything; she had called him often in the months since coming to the cathedral and he knew what she wanted. Without a word he dressed and prepared the monstrance.

When he walked out into the sanctuary they were there before the altar – his niece and a young American soldier. He started when he saw the soldier, but he said nothing. If she trusted the American, that was all he needed. Reverently he set the monstrance on the altar and took up the incense. When he was finished he returned to his room. She would keep watch until he awoke in the morning; she always did.

When she had first taken his hand to lead him closer to the altar, the American did not know what to do, but he followed her slowly. They stood there until the priest came out with the monstrance. Then she knelt, and he knelt beside her, ignoring the hard stone floor. He was not sure what was happening, but he felt at peace. The smell of the incense, though not unpleasant, was strange to him. When the old man had left he heard her begin praying. A glow seemed to come from the cross on the altar – a peaceful warmth that almost made him forget his grief. He began to pray for her. He had not prayed in a long time, and the thing was strange at first. He did not care. He prayed for her. He knew nothing about her, except that she had been kind to him, and that she seemed so alone. He could not imagine the fears and horrors that had chased her through the last few years. For a moment he forgot himself, and wished only that she had not suffered as she must have. The words came easily now, and he began to pray for Kerri, and for his little sister, and then again for her…

After a while he drifted off to sleep, facedown on the cold stone floor, and he was not cold. She stayed beside him all night, praying for him, for her parents, and for his wife. She cried softly from time to time – cried for the strange man that lay sleeping on the floor beside her, who would never see his wife again.

When he awoke in the morning the sun was just peeking above the horizon. The golden cross with the radiant white circle was gone from the altar, and she was sitting at the piano again, playing softly so as not to wake him. He lay there, trying to sort out what had happened during the night, hoping it had not been a dream. Then he looked over and saw her at the piano and heard the sweet music, and he knew it was real.

Slowly he stood and walked over to her. He smiled when she turned around. The letter was still there where the music should be, but somehow it did not hurt anymore to think about what it held. He knew he was not finished grieving, but he felt a peace about it all that he could not understand. She took the letter and held it up to him.

“Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “You keep it.”

He stood there for a minute, not knowing what to do. Finally he only said, “Danke.”

She smiled, “Gott sei mit dir,” she said.

He nodded and smiled. “Und mit dir,” he said, and then he turned to go.

As he stepped out onto the steps in front of the cathedral he could still hear her playing, and he marveled at what had happened. Then the great door banged shut behind him, cutting off the ethereal music. Somewhere in the distance the rattle of gunfire reminded him of what he was. “Gott mit uns,” he thought, and smiled sadly as he started down the street toward headquarters, his back to the blood red sunrise.