Work Text:
1979
“Angel, have you ever heard of a place called Lourdes?” Hans asked her one day, as they sat on the grass together. This question came completely out of the blue.
“I haven’t. Where is it?” Sylvia asked with a frown. She wondered where this conversation was going.
“It’s a small French town in the Pyrenees. My mother told me about it when I was a child. They say a local peasant girl saw an apparition of the Virgin Mary, and the water there is said to have healing properties. Thousands of pilgrims go to Lourdes every year, hoping to be cured of their afflictions. Do I believe in any of this? No, of course not.” Hans scoffed. “But you know my dirty little secret.” He waggled a finger at her. “That is to say, my Catholic guilt. I went through all the church rituals when I was a boy. I had my First Holy Communion, I was confirmed. But once I reached a certain age, I realized I didn’t actually believe in any of it. But I could never tell my mother that, because I didn’t want to break her heart.” He sighed. “As absurd as it sounds, part of me misses the church. I miss the structure. The community. The reassurance of having something to believe in. But those days are long past. My faith is lost, and I can never regain it. Not after the wars, and not after my atrocities.” The whole time Hans spoke, he looked wistful. Longing for what he could never regain.
Sylvia listened intently. He continued:
“I have a small request for you. I know it may sound ludicrous, but humor a dying man. I want you to go to Lourdes.”
Sylvia blinked uncomprehendingly. “Why?”
Hans smirked at her. “I knew you would ask that. It is an excellent question nonetheless. I’m not exactly asking you to pray for me, angel. I would never make you do that. I want you to go there to ease my guilt. That’s it.”
Sylvia rested her head on his shoulder. “I can do that. I’ll go there for you.”
Clouds drifted by above them. There was a slight breeze off the ocean.
“Thank you. That gives me quite a bit of relief.” Hans said softly. Then, he gave her a teasing smile and added: “Even if you were Catholic, I still wouldn’t ask you to pray for me. My soul is well beyond saving.”
Sylvia kissed his lips.
“I’ve lived with you for thirty-five years, I know!” She ribbed.
What should have been a light, playful, moment was tinged with sadness. Because they could never forget what he had done. What if Hans never joined the SS? What if they met under more normal circumstances? It was pointless to dwell on these what-ifs. If Hans had not joined the SS, they probably never would have met at all. It would be so good, to live a life free from the chains of his guilt. The suffocating weight of his crimes. But that could never be. Sylvia had long ago learned to accept all of him. She could still love him and hate his atrocities. If she ignored that side of him, well, she was just deluding herself. It was something they had both learned to live with. It would be nice if things were different, but they weren’t, so all they could do was accept their reality. And cope with it.
Finally, after three years of going back and forth with herself, Sylvia made the journey to Lourdes. She flew there alone in the spring of 1982. She went during the ‘off season’ in an attempt to avoid the large crowds. She stayed at the Hotel Royal, which, fortunately, was not far from the grotto.
Her room was clean, and about average size. Just a very bland, drab, hotel room. There was a single bed, and- of course- a cross on the wall. Sylvia set her suitcase on the bed and began unpacking. She’d packed lightly for her journey: a few changes of clothes, some books and magazines, one of her and Hans’ photo albums, and some essential toiletries. That was it.
Sylvia busied herself with putting away her clothes in the dresser. When she was done, she went to the window and sighed. The sun was already starting to set.
“Well, Hans, I’m here. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I’d appreciate a little guidance…” She muttered, running a hand through her hair.
She looked out the window at the street below. Lourdes was such a charming little town, like something from a storybook or a postcard. There was a Gothic cathedral at the center of town; it looked like a medieval castle. But it’s not my place. I don’t belong here. She thought. Her own mother had been Catholic, but so what? That didn’t matter. It wasn’t her faith. There was so much about it she didn’t understand.
Tomorrow was Sunday, the big day. What happens then? Will I have some kind of miraculous experience? Doubtful. A miracle would take all her pain away, and of course, that wouldn’t happen. It was a nice thought, but there was no chance of that happening. Sylvia went to bed feeling uncertain. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here after all.
She skipped Mass the next morning, for obvious reasons. She also had no interest in drinking or bathing in the spring water. Sylvia wanted to wait until the crowd thinned before she visited the grotto. She had no desire to wait in a line extending down the street. In the meantime, she decided to take a walk around town. Explore and get a bit of exercise.
Again, she questioned if coming here was really the best decision. She was, after all, a nonreligious Jew among devout Catholics. She didn’t fit in. She stuck out. She came alone, she didn’t wear a crucifix or rosary beads, and she didn’t pray.
So many people came here with sick or disabled family members. She saw many disabled people, both children and adults. Some could walk, while others were in wheelchairs. There were elderly pilgrims, much older than she was: wizened and bent-over, hobbling slowly along.
Sylvia had always thought of herself as a grounded and rational person. She didn’t really believe in miracles. But what about all the people who came here with their sick loved ones? Hoping and praying and pleading for a miracle? She hoped they found some form of healing. Miracle or not, I hope they find what they’re looking for.
Sylvia didn’t go out of her way to talk to people. She just smiled and politely said hello to people she passed. If anyone asked what brought her to Lourdes, she told them: “I’m actually not Catholic, I’m Jewish. I’m here for my late husband. He…Died of cancer.” And she would show them Hans’ photo. One from the late 40s or early 50s. It was becoming soft and worn at the edges because she looked at it so much.
Then they fussed over her and said things like: “Oh, I’m so sorry…” Privately, Sylvia found it grating. She didn’t want pity, and it was exasperating having to deal with it. But she forced herself to stay composed.
It seemed like Catholics had a saint for everything. Sylvia didn’t know how Hans kept them all straight. Still, it came as no surprise to her he’d picked Georg as his confirmation name. St. George, the slayer of dragons. After his confirmation, his parents gave him a silver medal with a picture of St. George engraved on it. It was one of his most prized possessions, and he never took it off- not even after losing his faith. Unfortunately, he lost it sometime during World War I.
There was one aspect of Catholicism Sylvia really, really, didn’t get. The veneration of relics. The remains of saints. Their skulls and bones, locked away in glass cases, or in golden shrines adorned with jewels. It was morbid. The whole idea gave her the creeps. At least there were no holy bones here. Small blessings indeed.
Finally, in the afternoon, people began to disperse, and Sylvia got her chance to visit the grotto. It was built into a stone overhang and surrounded by climbing vines. A statue of Mary stood in a niche, a serene expression on her face. Of course, Sylvia wasn’t alone. There were other people scattered about, standing, or sitting on one of the nearby benches. Praying or simply having a quiet moment. But she was able to ignore them.
She didn’t get a miracle, but she wasn’t exactly expecting one. Instead, she stood there for a while, reflecting. Though Sylvia had no religious beliefs and never would, she couldn’t disparage these people for having faith. This was a sacred experience for them. A once-in-a-lifetime trip. She didn’t believe in God, miracles, and certainly not Jesus, but she couldn’t deny this was a beautiful, peaceful, place.
She wondered what Hans would have thought if he were with her. Her husband was no saint. He was a sinner of the worst order. He was also a transplanted country boy, a lover of strudel and Wagner, and a lapsed Catholic. Love God above all else. That was what his parents instilled in him from an early age. He had strayed so far from their teachings.
Sylvia hoped Hans found the peace in death that eluded him in life. She was still thinking about that as she left the grotto. She suddenly got the feeling Hans really was at peace, and that brought her so much happiness. Relief.
Before she left Lourdes, she stopped by a gift shop. Why not bring back a souvenir? Of course, it was full of the usual Catholic kitsch: Bibles. Wall crosses. Crucifix jewelry and rosary beads. Prayer cards with portraits of saints. But there was one item that caught her eye: A silver medal with a picture of St. George slaying the dragon. Her heart skipped a beat. She had to have it.
When Sylvia got home, she put the medal in the nightstand drawer, along with Hans’ wedding band, and the photo she’d brought with her to Lourdes. She had her own little shrine to him now. Who said relics had to be morbid?