During our river boat cruise up the Rhine and down the Danube we were privileged to listen to a number of well-informed lecturers. Not surprisingly a number of the tour guides in Germany & Austria commented on the devastating effects of the Nazi regime on their respective countries. I suppose it was providential that one of the books I was reading on the trip was Elie Wiesel’s book “Night” – a nightmarish account of a teenage boy’s suffering in Auschwitz and Buchenwald. A year or so ago I had read a couple of novels “The Book Thief” and “All the Light We Cannot See.” These were in part a continuation of my reading the biography “Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy” by Eric Metaxas (an excellent account of an extraordinary German Lutheran pastor who refused the exhortations of scholars and theologians to escape the Nazi regime; indeed, he returned home to Germany from America where he was lecturing to bear witness to the liberty inherent in the gospel message. As you may know, Hitler had him imprisoned and when it became apparent that it was only a matter of weeks before the Third Reich would be compelled to surrender to the Allied forces Hitler gave orders for Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s execution. Sometime during his imprisonment Bonhoeffer wrote the following poem.
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I?They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.
Who am I?They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am I?This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I?They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I?They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.
Who am I?They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am I?This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I?They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!
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