1922. But Otto? His departure was an unexpected

1922. But Otto? His departure was an unexpected

A Joyful Pilgrimage Beginning at Sannerz

to Romans 8 if we still live in accordance with Romans 7?" he asked. Otto was referring to Paul's words, "I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate…Who will deliver me from this body of death?" Someone

explained that the eighth chapter does not say that we are delivered, but that we can be delivered. Otto was unconvinced.

After this there were many talks with him, individually and in the whole household. When Otto had joined the community a year-and-a-half earlier, he had said, "I am the camel. You can load on my back anything that is too much for you." But this initial faith and humility had long since gone. Now he said, "If I were to surrender completely to the call, I would not be able to produce art." And, "You have accepted so many worthless people into your midst that those who have something to give are beginning to stay away." Well, this no longer sounded like the man he was when he first came!

No wonder, then, that one day soon after this Otto came to tell us that he had joined Georg Flemmig's Young Men's Fellowship and wanted to leave our growing church community. Certainly there were other critical, even hostile voices making themselves heard already in those days, which we addressed in an article, "On the Criticism of Sannerz," in Das neue Werk of 1922. But Otto? His departure was an unexpected

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pain to all of us – the first person to leave our ranks! After he left, others in our circle also raised questions. Nevertheless, the good spirit led us together again and again.

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Crisis

In the search for a new life, which was once so full of promise, a different influence began to make itself heard, also in print. It came especially from the ministers of various churches. Their motto was: "Let the people with the new vision return to the old ways of life, and let their light shine there." Through this the impetus of the movement came to a halt for many young people.

The Whitsun Conference of 1922 took place not in Sannerz but in Wallroth, in the Rhön hills, and the new "back-to-the-old" movement invited speakers like Wilhelm Stählin. The topics in themselves were an indication of a different direction: "Fanaticism and salvation in the youth movement," "Sannerz (fantasy, utopia) versus Haberts­hof (reality)." This latter title reflected the changes at the Habertshof, where the idea of taking the new vision back to the old life had taken root among many, especially through the influence of Emil Blum, a former Swiss pastor. Eberhard spoke,

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too, however. Among other things he talked about the "funeral" of the youth movement, and this caused great offense.

We continued to have many guests, including

those who had attended the conference, and in our household there were many long evening discussions about the two directions in our movement. People took their stand on one side or the other. The fight had begun within our own ranks! Meanwhile our work continued in the publishing house and on the farm, though certainly interrupted by frequent talks.

In summer 1922 our family was invited to spend the month of July with the Boekes at Bilthoven, in Holland. Already that spring, Kees had given us money toward the purchase of a mill, as the house in Sannerz had become too small for the increasing number of people, and it did not seem worthwhile enlarging a building which, after all, was only rented.

The farmers in Sannerz had up to now rented us their poorest and stoniest fields, one reason being that we were "so many people" and therefore "well able" to pick the stones. I'm sure they also saw that we were not good farmers, and kept the best land for themselves. The fields that belonged to the mill were much better, on the other hand, and set in a most romantic spot,

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which made the idea very attractive. Besides, the publishing work could not support all sixty of us. To live and work more closely with nature – to experience the seasons of sowing and harvesting – surely this was

a solution. But as the next months unfolded, it became clear that nothing would ever come of the idea.

As I mentioned, our whole family, including Else, had been invited to spend July in Bilthoven, and the community decided that we should accept; Eberhard and I were rather run down after the first two years in Sannerz, and the children's health was not much better as a result of post-war malnutrition. There had been increasing unrest in the community over the previous months, but we agreed to the trip and put our hope in the good spirit to overcome all difficulties and differences. We also trusted those who had fought and suffered through so much with us. Surely they still had faith in the future kingdom, which we did not think was far away! This vision lived in us.

In Holland we were welcomed warmly and looked after with great love. There was a lively, anti‑militaristic spirit among the people in the Boekes' group, and every Saturday as many of them as possible marched in front of the town hall in Amsterdam, singing Kees's song, "No, no, we have done with fighting," in various languages.

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On August 2, 1922, the eighth anniversary of the outbreak of the war, a big crowd of war resisters from Bilthoven and other places marched through Amsterdam with stuffed horses and peace flags

with the inscription, "No More War." We also took part, of course, singing, "Long, long enough have Christian men borne arms against their brother," and other songs by Kees Boeke, all in Dutch. As the military columns marched past the Brotherhood House in Bilthoven, everyone opened the windows and shouted, "Nooit meer oorlog!" "No more war!"

Kees and Betty had a similar attitude with regard to money: they wouldn't even touch it. When they crossed a toll bridge, they gave eggs or something else. Neither did they believe in paying taxes or obeying police officers, and they were put in prison many times because of this. One time Kees just lay flat on the ground and had to be bodily carried off. Their furniture and other possessions went up for auction over and over again, but each time their friends and wealthy relatives refurnished their home. And so the cycle repeated itself.

In other respects, too, the Bilthoven group was very radical. Every guest or helper could take part in their meetings, and every voice carried equal weight. As Kees expressed it, every person carries a light within, and the good spirit can move and speak through him. In this

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sense, everyone was allowed to voice his or her opinion on any practical question that arose. We took part in such meetings on a number of occasions, and they seemed rather chaotic to us. What we missed (and we

expressed this) was the atmosphere of Christ, in whose spirit freedom is joined with reverence for a greater uniting power. In any case, Kees and Betty impressed us: they were an honest and forthright couple – people who put their convictions into action – and there was much we could learn from them.

While we were in Holland, letters came from home about the situation there, which sounded more and more disquieting. For one thing, financial worries had increased; inflation was soaring, loans (some from friends, and one from a bank) were being recalled, and we were suddenly faced with debts we had thought we had months to repay. Then Eberhard was asked to return home. In actual fact, as it was impossible to raise money in Germany, we felt it was providential that we were in Holland, and were confident that what was needed would be given to us there. Eberhard wrote home to say that he would be back before payment was due; that is, in two weeks if not sooner.

In spite of this, the unrest at home, as conveyed to us in letters from Sannerz, grew even greater. I was ready to travel with the children if need be, but Eberhard wanted to stay: during a long walk across the heath,

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he had received the inner certainty that he should not allow himself to be shaken out of his inner calm, but should complete his tasks in Holland as previously agreed, and be home by the time the payment on the

bank loan was due. When we discussed the situation with Else, we came to the same conclusion. We felt a strong inner assurance that God would show us the way, if only we let him. Here I want to share lines from a letter Eberhard wrote to my sister Monika, just in those days:

Take courage! We must no longer see what is small!

The great must take hold of us in such a way that it also

penetrates and transforms the small. I have courage

and joy for our life again in the certainty, of course,

that it will cost a great and glorious struggle. The Spirit

will conquer the flesh! The Spirit is the stronger! He

overwhelms me, you, one after the other. This Spirit is

goodness, independence, and mobility.

Our life will not become narrower, but broader; not

more limited, but more boundless; not more regulated,

but more abundant; not more pedantic, but more

bounteous; not more sober, but more enthusiastic;

not more faint‑hearted, but more daring; not worse

and more human, but filled with God and ever better;

not sadder, but happier; not more incapable, but more

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creative. All this is Jesus and his spirit of freedom! He is

coming to us. Therefore let us not grieve about anything,

but forgive everyone, just as we must be forgiven

everything, and go into the future radiant with joy. Stay

and wait until you are clothed with power from on high.

Soon the letters from home began speaking of our "gross lack of responsibility;" we even found out that those who had stayed at Sannerz asked the Brotherhood House in Bilthoven to send whatever money they wanted to give us directly to their address, rather than give it to us. (The Boekes did not heed this advice.)

Our departure from Holland came quickly. On our last evening a lady handed us an envelope containing Dutch guilders. When Eber­hard went to the bank in the morning, he received in German currency the exact amount owed by our publishing house to the bank on that very date. For once the inflation had worked to our advantage! Eberhard called home to share the good news, but was met with the reply, "It is too late; the publishing house is already being liquidated!"

After this we traveled home, spending a night in Frankfurt and arriving at Sannerz the next day. Suse, Moni, and Trudi met us at the station in Schlüchtern. Suse looked petrified and said only that she was not

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to tell us anything. At home we had an icy reception and watery soup. A small cake had been baked for the children, however.

After dinner we were invited to a meeting; everyone

sat in a circle on the floor of the dining room, the largest room in the house. The windows were wide open, and sitting on the sills, or looking in from outside, were students and others from a conference that was meeting in Schlüchtern that same day. (Eberhard had been scheduled to give the opening address, and several of the participants had come over, wanting to see something of Sannerz.)

Inside the room, a struggle erupted and raged as the conflict that had been slowly brewing over the previous months finally came to a head. On the one side were those of us who felt we must leave the old ways for once and for all if we were going to build up something truly new; on the other were those who advised us to give up our "idealism." It was said that faith and economic matters didn't belong together, whereas we felt that faith must penetrate and direct everything, including financial matters. Max Wolf had put it best in a publishing house meeting just days before: "What separates Eber­hard Arnold from the rest of us is his conviction that faith must determine all relationships, including financial ones."

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Finally, it was said that our "open door" was nothing but a great lie – that we had held meetings of both an inner and practical nature at which not everybody was present. It was true; we had sometimes gathered late

in the day, when most people were already in bed, to discuss the various challenges and problems our numerous guests brought with them, and to try to find a way of moving ahead. But mostly we had met this way simply to gather inward strength for the next stretch of the way.

It was not an easy meeting, to be sure. But the discussions that followed were even more difficult, and there was a palpable atmosphere of darkness and hos-tility in the room. When Eberhard stated that we were not willing to change the direction, but that we were ready to continue living with them in a modest, unassuming manner, if someone else would agree to take over the leadership, the upheaval knew no bounds. One after the other stood up and declared his intention to leave Sannerz. There must have been about forty in all. We could hardly comprehend all this, as we had gone through so much with many of them. What had happened during our absence of four weeks? It was inconceivable!

At the end, when the person in charge of the meeting asked who still intended to stay, there were just seven, the smallest possible number to enable us to continue

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as a legally incorporated body. Had there been fewer, Sannerz would have been automatically dissolved, and the money for the mill, as well as all the inventory, would have been distributed among those who were

currently living in the house.

Our business manager at the time, a former bank clerk named Kurt Harder, was among those who wanted to leave. Apart from him, the executive council consisted of Heinrich Schultheis (who had also decided to go), Eberhard, and myself. Because no more than two signatures were required for the transaction of business, anything could be done without Eberhard and myself, and it was. Furniture, farm implements – even our cows and other animals – were sold off. We city folk were unable to look after them properly, it was said. Canning jars were bought so that those moving away could take along as much of the plentiful fruit and vegetables as possible. Firewood we had stacked up for winter was burned in the stoves with the windows wide open, though it was only early September. People even used the money earmarked for the mill to purchase overcoats, shirts, and other clothing items, and urged us to do the same. Their rage exceeded all bounds when we refused to accept a share of it. But the sum had been given for a common cause; Kees had never intended for it to be divided among individuals.

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Now accusations of fraud were hurled at us from all sides, and the situation became almost unbearable. Naturally those who had turned against the community could not leave until they found another

livelihood elsewhere, and the days seemed to drag. The Schultheises, together with several others, looked into other possibilities for community living; after a while they found a suitable place in a former children's home at Gelnhausen. But their community only survived for a few months, and no wonder – there was nothing to hold them together except their protest against our way.

In the meantime our little group had taken on cooking for the whole household. I did most of it, but as I was not used to the thin, green soups we ate so often in those years, I tried to prepare more nourishing food, though in smaller amounts. The others thought we were trying to starve them. Eberhard im­mediately advised me to increase the quantities, which I did. It meant starting to cook again right after each meal, but what else could we do? More than ever we felt the importance of acting in accordance with the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount – of going the second mile.

Our situation – having no community but living together in the same house – became more and more intolerable as the days went by. Among those staying with us were several young women who had not come

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to us on account of any inward urge, but who simply needed a place to stay. One had been entrusted to our care by the welfare office; another had come to have her baby in a safe place. Both spread rumors around the

house, which certainly did not make life any easier.

One bright spot in those dreary days was the visit of Ernst Ferd­inand Klein, an uncle with whom Eberhard had spent the summer vacation of 1899, who had been instrumental in his conversion that same year. Onkel Ernst came to us from Berlin with his wife Lisbeth to "experience the spirit of Sannerz," and we were anxious as to what he would find. At first he did not take sides, and in his loving way tried to bring about reconciliation. When that didn't work, he went throughout the house each day, knocking at every door and inviting everyone to morning devotions! Amazingly, they all came: nobody was able to resist such a lovable man. And it did help to make the situation more bearable.

Although there were very likable people among those planning to leave – people who had been deeply moved and inspired for community at one time – a spirit of hatred now came from them. How could we be so foolish, so stubbornly determined to continue on the way we had recognized, they wondered? But we had never considered Sannerz a mere experiment, as apparently they had, an experiment for which, they

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said, "our generation is too weak, too human, too selfish." To us, it was a matter of a calling.

Here I should mention the liquidation of the Neuwerk Publishing House. First the partners and

shareholders met to officially wind up the publishing work, which, in their opinion, had not been run in a businesslike manner. Then the books were divided up: those leaving us planned to start an imprint of their own, and wanted to take the books most suitable for this, including Junge Saat, both Blumhardt volumes, our Georg Flemmig titles, and others, above all the magazine Das neue Werk. We were heartbroken. It was an act of kindness on the part of our old friend Otto Herpel, who died soon afterward, to leave the Zinzendorf volume with us. He said, "We respect Eberhard's faith, even though we cannot share it." Yes, even he was of the opinion that spiritual and temporal matters ought not to be mixed.

At the end of the meeting a vote was taken to determine whether all agreed to proceed with the liquidation. It seemed there was a unanimous yes – until Eberhard stood up and said, "Unanimous with the ex­ception of one voice! I am not in agreement. Please record this in the minutes!"

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Finally, in October, the last of our former household members left, and Sannerz was quiet. Yet there was still a great obstacle to overcome. Before leaving, our "friends" had gone to the government housing office,

declaring that the house was soon going to be empty, and that rooms would be available for people who needed a place to live. (There were still many homeless people, even four years after the end of the war.)

We were summoned to appear before the local court in Schlüch­tern. The plaintiffs had hired a sharp lawyer, who proceeded to state their case very aggressively, and the judge had a plan of the whole house, showing the layout of the rooms. Eberhard and I were quite alone. We made it clear that the work of the community had not been closed down, nor had its social work been discontinued; only a certain number of people were leaving. We also reminded the court that if it was really a lack of housing for homeless citizens that was at stake, there was always the castle in nearby Ramholz, which belonged to local nobility and stood empty almost the whole year round. Finally the judge stated his decision: the court recognized that the law was on our side, and we were thus permitted to continue using the house at Sannerz for our needs and for the purposes of our work.

When we came home, there was great rejoicing. Now, after all the hardships and the disillusionment

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of the past months, after so many beloved friends who had originally shared our enthusiasm for a new way had left us, we could once again rebuild. And we were determined to do this, with every ounce of energy

we had. It was not so, as some might think, that the "weaker" or "worse" ones had left, and the "better" or "stronger" ones remained. We did not feel that way at all. We were very much aware of our own failings and inadequacies for the task at hand. Yet in spite of our limitations we had to go on. Many years later, just two months before he died in November 1935, Eberhard said of this time:

When the call first came to us, we felt that the spirit

of Christ had charged us to live in full community, in

communal solidarity, with an open door and a loving

heart for all people. It was the word of Jesus Christ, the

reality of his life and his spirit that gave us the strength

to start out on this way and to keep going though our

steps were small and feeble. We had traveled only a short

distance on this way when times came upon us that put

this power to the test, times of trial and hostility, when

friends we had grown to love deeply suddenly reversed

their position and became enemies because they had

turned from freedom and unity and wanted to return to

ordinary middle‑class life, to a "normal, private life" and

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their own pocketbook. Thus the movement was led into

bondage again through the influence of capitalism and

its professional and business life.

Yet even though most of our friends left us and whole

groups deserted the flag of unity and freedom, though

well‑meaning people earnestly warned us that this way

would lead to a lonely and ineffectual end, we were not

dissuaded. With our own children and those we had

adopted, we had to push through toward the goal.

It was around this time that Eberhard and Else traveled to Berlin to discuss the continuation of our publishing work; they brought back with them Hans Grimm, a motherless ten-year-old. During these same days we received a telegram regarding our sister Olga, asking us if she could come to Sannerz. Olga had contracted tuberculosis a year-and-a-half earlier and had stayed with us during the sum­mer of 1921, together with her adopted daughter Ruth; now it seemed she was in the last stages of her illness.

Moni and I immediate­ly traveled to Lippe (Olga's home) and found her very ill. She told us how hard the previous months had been for her, and what a struggle she had been through when she realized how little time she had left. But she had fought through her depression, and now she was filled with a joyful

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anticipation of eternity. She longed to see the "city of golden streets," to meet Jesus, the apostles, her parents, and other loved ones who had died.

It was November, and Olga was sad that she would

never experience spring again – the earthly spring with its violets and cowslips, and other wild flowers. But how eagerly she looked forward to the eternal spring! We were deeply moved by her attitude of faith, and brought her home. Little Ruth traveled with us; from then on she was part of our family for good.

At Sannerz we put Olga in a relatively large room, with two big windows facing south. Still, heating was quite a problem. As I said earlier, all of our firewood had been recklessly burned, and because we had no money to buy more, we had to collect what we could from the Albing Mountain. Every day as many of us as possible went out to collect fuel for all the stoves – and there were many of them. Even the children helped – as with other chores, they joined us eagerly and with enthusiasm.

The wood was not good – in fact, it was mostly green – and the smoky fires it made were no help for Olga's lungs. Her coughing attacks and breathing difficulties were terrible to watch. Moni and I would have preferred to have her stay in the hospital in Schlüchtern, where conditions were better, but Olga would have none of it. She wanted to die "at home,"

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surrounded by her sisters and our little circle of fellow believers.

The last few weeks with Olga were a great challenge to us all. So close to death she was, and yet so close to

the life that lasts eternally! Mr. Orth, the senior pastor of Schlüchtern who visited her during her last days, said, "For her, passing into the other world is like stepping from one room into the other."

Sometimes we sat at her bedside in small groups – Else, Moni, Trudi, Hugga (Suse Hungar), and Eberhard and I – singing old and new Advent songs. At other times one of us sat alone with her, listening to her as she spoke of her longing for redemption from suffering and her expectation of glory. Because of the danger of infection, little Ruth was allowed to visit her only once a day. When she came, Olga encouraged her in her childlike way, expressing her hope that one day Ruth would find the way to Christ.

On Olga's last night, the night of December 1, I went to bed with a cold and a fever. Ruth and Emy-Margret were in the room next to mine, Olga in the room directly above. Suddenly both girls came in and wanted to talk with me. While we were still talking, I heard the door above me being locked. I knew, even before my sisters could tell me, that Olga had died.

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Eberhard had not been home for several days; he was in Sonnefeld at the time, meeting with Hans Klassen and his group of inspired young Baptists – the group that later started the settlement of the so-called

Neu‑Sonnefeld Youth. We sent a telegram, and he returned home quickly.

Two days after Olga's death we celebrated the first Sunday of Advent. The songs we sang reflected our experience, especially the one, "How shall I fitly meet thee?" which we sang with great emotion as we thought of our dear sister lying in her room. Otto Salomon's song, "Lo, a light is in the East" is another I remember singing at the time. The funeral, which took place in Ramholz, was held the following day. We took the coffin to the cemetery on a simply decorated farm wagon.

We missed Olga, but her death held no terror for us. Was it not a going home to Christ, and did it not carry within it the power of resurrection? Dying was a stark reminder of the crisis we had just been through as a community: the powers of death had tried to destroy a movement that had been awakened to life, and had almost conquered it. Yet out of this very struggle, painful as it was, new hope and strength had arisen like a breath of spring. More than ever we felt ready to defend the cause at all costs.

A Joyful Pilgrimage A New Start

A New Start

After the crisis of 1922 we would have liked to have some time to ourselves, but we were not left alone. Many people came out of curiosity, wanting to know how things were going in Sannerz, and there continued to be plenty of criticism regarding all that had happened. This was true even far from home. Earlier, when we had attended conferences, people were full of enthusiasm for what they knew of our life; now, when they found out where we were from, they often moved quickly away. Comments like, "Sannerz is one big lie," or "Sannerz is nothing but a idealist utopia" were spread far and wide and accepted as fact. We could not disprove anything with words; our only answer was to invite our detractors to come and see our life for themselves before judging it. Looking back, I find it a miracle that we were able to continue in spite of it all.

Among those who lived with us in the house at the time were several unwed expectant mothers, most of them needy, who had somehow heard about us. One

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of them, Friedel, had first stayed at our home in Berlin and in 1920 we had taken her in a second time after she completed a prison term for robbing a department store. Now she showed up a third time, expecting a

baby and needing a place to live. Unfortunately the villagers in our mainly Catholic district misunderstood our hospitality in cases like this, and it did not help our already questionable reputation.

We have often been asked about our attitude to this sort of outreach in those early years. Simply put, we made an effort to take in all who came to us for help. Moni was a trained midwife and therefore able to provide medical assistance, and we all supported her. It was not a matter of social work; it was a deed of love.

As for the fruits of our efforts, there were practically none, other than disappointments. Having regained their strength among us (at no cost to themselves, of course) our mothers usually disappeared, with or without baby. Was that to stop us from doing the work of love? The question came up again and again, in part because of our image as a community. But we rejected it as a temptation, as cowardice. Yes, there was little thankfulness for the pains we took, but it was not for the sake of thanks that we did it.

Children continued to be brought to us; visitors came and went –some seeking, some merely curious.

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Karl Keiderling (Roland, as we called him then) came with a group of boys just in time to help us get the last potatoes out of the ground. They also helped us gathering firewood from the forest, a daily necessity. At

Christmas, Agnes, a youth leader, came for a time with a small group of girls. It wasn't an easy visit, for we had the feeling they wanted to observe us rather than to experience something with us. In general, everything went at a slower pace, and we found more time to gather inwardly and re-find our bearings. Eberhard's poem, "I start again anew to live," which was put to music by our friend Walther Böhme, expresses the mood we felt very well.

In 1923 the publishing house was newly established from the ground up as the Eberhard Arnold Verlag; those who had left us had taken the well-known Neuwerk name and logo away with them. Of the Neuwerk-period books, we kept only Otto Herpel's Zinzendorf, two dramas that Otto Salomon had brought with him, Goldstein's book on race, and the little anthology of legends. Tolstoy's letters and Emil Engelhardt's book on love and marriage were being printed at the time.

We had few resources, but Kees Boeke had told us to keep the rest of the money meant for the mill after

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the expenses had been covered for those who had left, so at least we had something. It was also at this time that, through our connections with the Baptist Youth, we took over joint publication of the magazine Die

Wegwarte with them.

Most gratifying of all, a relationship developed with the Hochweg Publishing House in Berlin, which finally made it possible to pursue Eberhard's dream of a series of Quellen ("source books") on various religious currents – and the notable men and women in them – throughout history.

As each new volume came into being, it was an enrichment for all of us to share in the witness of its subject. While sorting potatoes in the cellar, or making preserves, we read parts of the manuscript aloud, and everyone took a lively interest. The authors of several of the Quellen volumes came to visit us, which made it possible for us to acquaint ourselves more intimately with their work: Alexan­der Beyer, author of the volume on Francis of Assisi; Karl Justus Obenauer, author of Novalis; Hermann Ulrich, who edited the Diaries of Kierkegaard; and Alfred Wiesen­huetter, editor of Jakob Böhme. Through this we gained a deeper under­standing of the historical context of these books. In the case of Eberhard's book The Early Christians, we all participated in the compiling process

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by selecting passages from the materials he shared with us. (Two "source books" that were planned but unfortunately never finished were Eberhard's book on the nonresistant Anabaptists of the sixteenth century,

and Theo Spira's volume on George Fox).

Because I had been interested in religious songs and hymns since my early youth and had also selected most of the songs we sang together, I was asked to make a collection of Zinzendorf's songs in their original form from the Moravian archives in Herrnhut. They were to be appended to Otto Herpel's volume on Zinzendorf. I enjoyed this work very much. I also compiled and edited the book Sonnen­lieder (Songs of the Sun), our first collection for communal singing. It was a lot of work, but a project that brought me great joy.

The trips we made to the printer in the romantic old city of Würzburg were most memorable and enjoyable. While Eberhard and Else went to the printers, I went shopping; afterward we would spend several hours in the Café Zeissner reading proofs together. It was wonderful!

One thing that occupied us anew in 1923 – though it was important to us from the beginning of our life together – was the building up of our children's community. The older children, Emy-Margret, Hardy,

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and Heinrich, had not remained untouched by the turmoil of the year before, and they needed our love and attention. They were aware of the conflicting spirits that had shaken the house, and of the hatred

that had come to expression in remarks like, "Sannerz is just a big lie. It ought to be destroyed, lock, stock, and barrel." They knew too, how their father had been personally slandered and attacked.

Of course, our children's education was not limited to schoolwork, but included other activities. In summer, for instance, there were the glorious berry-picking excursions we made for days on end, gathering in the harvest given by God by day, and at evening performing simple dramas like "The Water of Life" for the farmers in whose barns we found a place to sleep.

Standing under the Dorflinde – the old linden in the center of each village – we would sing the old folk songs, accompanied by violins and guitars. In return, the peasants would treat us to bread, sausage, and eggs. After two or three days a wagon came from home to bring back the buckets full of the berries "God had given us without our sowing," as Eberhard always said. The friendship of the peasants, the working and playing and singing together with our children – all this was sheer happiness! And the harvest, which often amounted to over a hundred pounds, was something we depended on.

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By now there were fifteen or more children at Sannerz, including our own five. These were the years of the "Sun Troop," a small group started by our son Heinrich and his classmates, Sophie and Luise, all

three of whom felt a strong urge to share their faith with other children in the village. Because the oldest of these children was no more than eleven, it was tempting at times to hold them back until they could become more mature. Yet Eberhard and I could not help rejoicing in their childlike enthusiasm, which made them value their hearts' experience above their homework, their chores, and everything else. It reminded us of the spirit that must have animated the Children's Crusades, and the children's revival at the time of Zinzen­dorf.

Nearly all the children of Heinrich's age joined the Sun Troop. Carrying their red banner, they would walk to a quiet meadow or a place in the woods where they held their meetings, talking, singing, or reading together. Sometimes it was the Bible, or a legend; at others they read from the mystic Meister Eckhart, whose writings Heinrich loved especially. They had their own campfires and their own songs, and they did not like it when someone eavesdropped, though they did invite this or that one to a meeting on occasion. Heinrich put his zeal into words in a childlike song he wrote at the time:

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We would a fire kindle

Eagerly, with great joy.

We would a song be singing

That makes our hearts rejoice.

Fire toward Christ shall blazing start,

To all shall bring a new loving heart,

Shall brightly shine afar.

A song written by Emy-Margret at the time of the 1922 crisis was another favorite:

Now when our brothers prepare for battle,

And in their breasts a fire is kindled,

They march through town and countryside

With courage and victorious cries.

They wander with an impulse holy

To sow the seeds of love to brothers.

They fight against all war and strife,

They fight against all sinfulness.

With truly joyful hearts they're marching,

With really clear and radiant sun‑hearts,

And Jesus Christ before them goes,

And after him run all who can.

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Marcel Woitzschach, a coffeehouse musician who was living with us at the time, wrote a tune for this poem. He was drawn to our life of brotherhood, but disillusioned by our struggles too, and later he left. Sad

to say, we never heard from him again.

As our school grew, so did our need for teachers. Trudi Dalgas and Suse Hungar had been with us since 1921; later Ludwig Wedel came to help for a while. He was influenced by eastern mysticism, and after he left us he went to India, where he lived in an ashram for many years. Anneliese Dittrich, a teacher from Bremen, joined us some time later and taught in our school too.

In 1923 Georg Barth visited us for the first time. Trained in industrial arts but strongly influenced by the mystics and by the contemporary youth movement, he was a real enrichment to our small group. Previously Georg had worked in a home for delinquent boys; now he agreed to teach our children handicrafts and oversee their involvement in the practical work. In 1925 he came to stay.

The arrival of Adolf and Martha Braun and their two daughters, Elfriede and Gertrud, was a high point of 1924. They were the first family to join us since the crisis of 1922. Adolf had first become aware of us by

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reading Eberhard's book War: A Call to the Inner Land while lying in an army hospital in Constantinople during World War I. After the war, back in Germany, he had attended public lectures where Eberhard had

spoken, and visited us a number of times. Now he and Martha had decided to come for good; they had sold their house in Nordhausen, and bought train tickets to Schlüchtern.

On the day of the Braun's arrival, full of joy and anticipation, we went to meet them at the station, our farm wagon decorated with greenery and flowers, and the older children carrying torches. Young men and women had joined us before, and we were grateful for each one. But here, at long last, was another family who dared to join our adventure! Two others came from the Braun's church: Rose Meyer (later Kaiser), and a few weeks later, Lotte Henze.

At Sannerz the Brauns told us that on their way, at the railroad station in Kassel, "friends" who had left us in 1922 had tried to dissuade them from coming. That made us even more grateful to have them among us, and to know that they could have our full trust.

While Martha was a little "bourgeois" at first, Adolf soon felt at home. True to the youth movement ideal of simplicity, he wanted nothing but the plainest, and though he had brought a huge vanload of furniture with him, he wanted to keep only a minimum. In his

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opinion, a few simple chairs and a box for a table were ample. Adolf's advice in several difficult financial situations was also a great help, as was his courage in asking for extensions on loans and postponement of

bills. It was not long before we asked him to join the executive council of our legal society.

Eberhard and I, Trudi and Else, and now Adolf were members of this council; I still remember how, after taking care of business in Schlüchtern or Fulda, the five of us would take time to relax in a café together. Especially when we had been dealing with a financial problem, those hours of fellowship brought us close.

Money was not our main worry in those days however, particularly in light of the inner struggles we experienced after 1922. People came to us tormented – perhaps even possessed – by demonic powers, and often it seemed that the more powerfully the Holy Spirit worked in our midst, the harder their struggle became. Some were freed from the darkness that beset them in a quiet, unobtrusive way. But there were two (one a guest, the second a member of our household) who were enslaved by unclean spirits, and their struggle was much more difficult. Eberhard and I and several others took an active part in the fight against these powers.

We were concerned not only with the burdened souls themselves, for we felt we were involved in a battle of

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spirits – good against evil. As the apostle Paul wrote: "We are not contending against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against spiritual hosts

of wickedness in the heavenly places."

Oswald, a big, brawny man who wore little clothing, appeared suddenly one day, his long hair tied with a pink ribbon. At first we did not make much of his odd ways, but when he suddenly disrobed completely during a communal midday meal, saying, "To the pure everything is pure," we knew we were dealing with something more than eccentricity, and sent him from the room.

Later, we confronted Oswald about his behavior and became more fully aware what a miserable and tortured man he was. When Eberhard asked him whether he wanted to be freed from the impure spirits that so obviously bound him, he retorted with a diabolical grin, "You can't do it!" Eberhard held firm: "But the church can." At this Oswald ran out of the room, screaming, "I am afraid; this has to do with death and the devil. This means I have to die!" Oswald ran so fast that no one could catch up with him; we never heard of him again.

Our struggle with sixteen­-year‑old Lotte Henze was quite different, and far more intense. From the beginning, Lotte often wore a peculiar expression, and it was obvious that there was something unusual about

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her. Certainly, there were times when she looked quite normal, but at others there was a tormented, almost evil, look on her face.

One day Lotte would respond positively to our life,

telling us openly about her difficult childhood and asking searching questions that went far beyond her age; the next she would act quite differently, uttering ugly and hateful words. Eberhard was troubled about her, and we assigned her to help me in the work, so that I could support her in difficult moments.

One day Lotte begged to be baptized. All of us felt this would help her, and we soon began to hold meetings to prepare for baptism. Our son Heinrich took part, too, as did Karl Keiderling, who had just returned after a time of absence from the community. In the end the meetings only resulted in greater internal conflicts for Lotte, and we decided to postpone the actual baptism, also for Heinrich and Karl. Here I will let Eberhard's words (from a letter to a group of Christian publishers in April 1926) speak for themselves:

We have been through rough times this winter. One

struggle was due to our lack of finances…and this tough

fight alone could have consumed all our strength…

The other was considerably more difficult, more

fateful. I can only indicate its nature in broad strokes;

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the details cannot be told here. We found ourselves in a

spiritual struggle against dark powers which developed

a force such as we had never known before…We had

come face to face with demonic powers before, and

seen what power they can have over people. But never

had we come across it in such a frightening way as we

did this winter. We had to be right there day and night

until, after weeks of wrestling, the strength of the hostile

power was broken.

It was a help to our small community that we had

the example of the early Christians to reveal the power

which conquers demons. The victory given Johann

Christoph Blumhardt in 1843 after his fight against

demonic powers in his parish at Möttlingen was also an

encouragement to us. The sinister manifestations and

terrifying blasphemies, the storming and raving, the

possession of the tormented person by the evil power,

the attack on the faith of the believers – all this can be

broken only by the name of Jesus Christ, by witnessing

to his life, from the virgin birth to his words and deeds,

his crucifixion, and his resurrection.

Only by the power and authority of the Holy Spirit

can evil powers be broken; an individual can do nothing.

The church alone is empowered to command them,

no matter how small a handful of devoted believers

represents it. When this authority is given, the demonic

powers become anxious and fearful, and the possessed

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person may express this by physical collapse or by

fleeing and hiding. The important thing, then, is to hold

on, to believe in Christ, and to banish the evil power

completely through him until the possessed person is

freed and can herself call upon Christ.

God gave us this victory – it was a memorable New

Year's Eve – and through this, some among us found

a new faith (and a new awareness of their own human

smallness) such as they never had before. It became

clear that the main thing was not the individual and his

or her salvation, but the struggle for supremacy between

two spiritual forces. It was a conflict between God and

Satan – between the only good power, the power of the

Holy Spirit, and the evil forces of the demons. And it

made us more certain than ever that the kingdom of

God is power.

The struggles were drawn out over a period of weeks

and often went on at night, so that afterward we were

exhausted. Then, in the months that followed (and

they were almost more difficult) the person who had

undergone such unspeakable torment had to be guided

back to faith…for in spite of all that had happened,

this was not yet assured. Then there were doubts and

misgivings among those who had held on to faith most

courageously in the hardest days of the fight, because

the person in question suffered several relapses…

Regretfully, our attention became focused too much on

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this person in the end, and this distracted us from our

love for God.

Now our little community needs to be strengthened

once more in hours of quiet…so that Christ may purify us

and prepare us. We still stand in the midst of a struggle,

but it is one of becoming. We stand at the beginning of

a new time.

We ask you from our hearts to have patience with us

in this situation and, above all, to continue supporting

us through your practical help and your prayers. May

God fan the flames of the decisive struggle in his church

everywhere, and lead it to victory.

Your brother, Eberhard Arnold

P.S. You will realize that this information is strictly

confidential, and that I wrote it all only because of my

trust in your friendship. As much as possible, things of

this nature should be kept quiet.

Yes, those days of intense struggle repeatedly reminded us of Blum­hardt's fight; and we believed that Lotte would become a part of our life for good, in the same way that the tormented Gottliebin had become part of Blumhardt's household in his day. This was not given, however. Lotte's struggles did not recur, at least not while she stayed with us, but after a year or so she left us. Later she returned from time to time to visit

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us, once with a child, and then in the early 1930s we heard that the Gestapo had arrested her on account of her involvement with the Communists, and sent her to a concentration camp. That was the last we heard of

her.

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The Rhön Bruderhof

Our door remained open for entering and for leaving, and many people came and went. All kinds of people came looking for refuge with us. One young visitor had run away from her husband and sought shelter with us; another, wanted by the police, suddenly vanished behind a cupboard during one of our communal meals: he had looked out the window and seen them approaching. A young girl came all the way from Berlin because of an unhappy love affair her father had put an end to. There were many reasons people showed up at Sannerz – and they were not always of the deepest nature.

In the mid-1920s, several young men joined us: among them Alfred Gneiting, Arno Martin, Hans Zumpe, Fritz Kleiner, and Kurt Zimmermann. All of these stayed with us for good. Others helped out for a time but got tired of the hardships of our life. Tramps – "brothers of the road," as we called them – often turned up too. Unemployment was widespread in Germany

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for years after the war, and many were forced into a life on the road, hunting for a day's work wherever they could find it.

As our household grew to about fifty, Sannerz

became too small, and we were forced to start looking for a new property, even though we had no money. Before long we heard of the Sparhof, a large farm a few miles away. It was an isolated spot with rocky soil, and the local peasants did not have a very good reputation, but that did not frighten us. Hadn't we always sought out the poor?

The Sparhof consisted of seven farmsteads, the largest of which – the Hansehof – was seventy-five acres. Ownership had changed hands many times because of debts and deaths, and the buildings were dilapidated and the fields neglected. On top of this there were strings attached – the couple who lived on the farm had the right to stay on the property until their death. Yet it was the only place we found that seemed to offer any possibilities, and the asking price was favorable: 26,000 marks.

Run down as it was, the farmstead was not far from Sannerz, which was an important point in its favor. We had no idea where would we find the 10,000 marks needed for the down payment, or how we could raise

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the funds needed to rebuild and enlarge the main house, which was completely uninhabitable. But we were eager to build a "monument" to communal life, as Eberhard expressed it, and not afraid of work. If the

step was right, it must be taken, and taken in faith. We decided to buy the place.

In the fall of 1926 the community sent Eberhard and me to speak with the owners; next we traveled to Fulda, hoping it would be possible to sign the contract. Else and I sat in the Café Hesse waiting for Eberhard to return from the notary's office. When he came to fetch us to sign our names, I wavered, wondering aloud how we could possibly sign without having a penny of the 10,000 marks we would need as down payment within ten days. Naturally we had told a number of friends our plans, and we hoped for a gift here or there, but we knew of no one who might give us such a sum. Yet Eberhard was adamant: "This is a step in faith!"

Our payment day grew closer, and still there was no money. Then, on the last day before the money was due, a friend, the Prince of Schönburg‑Waldenburg, handed us 10,000 marks. Our jubila­tion knew no bounds! Everyone gathered in the house, and we sang one song of praise and thanksgiving after another.

Now we had to tackle the practical problems. Necessary formalities such as the conveyance of title were already arranged, but there were plenty of other

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things that had to be planned. First we considered the upcoming potato harvest – our main food staple for the winter – and decided that the schoolchildren and teachers would bring it in. Next we formed a

committee for remodeling and building construction led by Georg Barth. Adolf Braun (and later Arno Martin) was assigned to take on the farm work, including the plowing. The publishing house and the younger children were to remain in Sannerz for the time being, until ac­commodation was available. Adolf and Martha Braun were asked to be house parents for the new place, which we named the Rhön Bruderhof,1 and Gertrud Ziebarth (later Dyroff) was sent to help them. Gertrud had joined us some time before; she served the community faithfully until her unexpected death in 1939, after the birth of her third son.

The first group of adults (and children from the age of twelve and up) moved to the new Bruderhof in time for the potato harvest. It was already November, with sharp north winds, rain, and fog, and they had to work speedily to beat the first hard frost. Martha, Moni, or I would go out with the children and bring along hot drinks for those who worked in the fields all day. Whenever the children's hands and feet grew too cold, we interrupted the work to dance in a circle. At night we put straw down in one of the rooms and slept on that. We also installed a small iron stove, though we

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had to stick the stovepipe through a window, as there was no proper chimney. At least it was drier, if not much warmer, indoors.

While we dug potatoes in one field, the next was

plowed in preparation for spring. Our farm equipment was in poor condition and needed continual repairs. Luckily we had a blacksmith, Fritz Kleiner, whose enthusiasm made him just the right man for this.

Aside from Georg, our construction team consisted mainly of young friends from the youth move­ment and the working class. Building was by no means easy without sufficient money or materials. First we had to cut down trees; then we had to exchange the felled timber, which was obviously still green and unusable, for seasoned lumber in Veitsteinbach, the nearest village. Clay for the air‑dried bricks, which we made ourselves, had to be hauled from Mittel­kalbach, over an hour's trip downhill and an even longer one back uphill. Carting was done with two old horses that had come with our acquisition of the farmstead. During the day we used these horses for plowing, or for moving furniture and equipment up from Sannerz; at night we kept them busy, too, hauling up loads of mater-ial for the building. It was no surprise that one of them soon died, and that the other got sick and simply refused to carry on.

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The horses we bought later, a lighter, East-Prussian breed, were also overworked. Hitched to a light buggy, which we had temporarily equipped for exhibiting books and pamphlets, they were used for mission

and for transporting people to and from neighboring ­villages. They were also used for trips to the railroad stations – Sterb­fritz, about an hour and a half away, or Neuhof, a little farther. Sometimes we even used them to pull the light carriage all the way to Fulda, about twenty miles away, since more often than not we had no money for the train. If someone needed cash in town, he first had to sell books or pamphlets, or small craft pieces like wooden candle­holders, nativity scenes, and bookmarks.

I still remember a trip Else and I took just before Christmas one year: Else was driving, and we took just enough money to buy ourselves a hot cup of coffee on the way. Alas, Freia, our horse, went on strike halfway to Fulda, lying down in the middle of the road and refusing to respond, either to encouraging words or to cracks of the whip. She simply would not get up. Only when we gave her our coffee did she graciously get up and pull us the remaining twelve miles to Fulda. Yes, some days could be strenuous – but a little humor went a long way in lightening difficult moments.

Food at both Sannerz and the Rhön Bruderhof was very poor, and it is not surprising that the young men

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who worked on the building were often completely worn out. Everything was in short supply, and the few provisions we purchased had to be divided between the two households. Meat was very scarce, and the

rations of bread, lard, and sugar inadequate. Potatoes were our main staple, but a good number had suffered from frost because of the late harvest, which gave them a sweetish taste. We did have some tough beef from an old cow, and there was plenty of fermented sauerkraut to be had. But in general there was no fat in the diet. Everyone could have eaten more, and the men who were working at the new farmstead in cold weather were especially hungry. A few times they even killed a cat (a "roof rabbit," the peasants joked) because they were so starved.

Eberhard and I spent two or three days a week on the farm. We would drive up on a sleigh, which was pleasant enough, but at times the fog and snow were so bad, we could not find the way. Several times we drove around in circles until one of the builders or men working in the fields heard our shouting. Once the snow was so deep we lost the road completely. To make things worse, it got dark early, and then we could not see anything at all.

Our presence was needed in many ways – giving encouragement, having personal talks, straightening out quarrels, or helping out where there was a lack of

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communication between various work crews. Often these troubles were related to our financial hardships, and then it seemed best to overcome them simply by singing them away. We sang humorous songs and

songs of hope, as well as the old socialist songs like the one with the verse: "We're bound by love, we're bound by need / To fight for freedom and for bread."

Despite our poverty, some of our younger coworkers had a tremendous amount of idealism. Still, that was not always enough to overcome all the hardships. Thus several left us. Looking back, I do not think it was only because of the outward difficulties, though. Building up a new life made severe inner demands on us all; and as Jesus himself said, "Whoever of you does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple."

During this strenuous time our little school continued to function as well as it could, and the teachers even found time to put on a Christmas play with the children. The publishing work also went on, of course, as did our efforts at outreach. During the last week of December we hosted a conference of the Free German Youth at Sannerz, and one day we all walked to the new Bruderhof to hold a meeting there.

All in all, it was not easy to be separated into two groups: misunderstandings arose, and they had to be resolved by meeting to talk things over. A life in

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common, a life of sharing and working together! Even after all these years, I feel it is simply a mystery.

In the summer of 1927 it was finally possible for those of us who remained in Sannerz to move to the Rhön Bruderhof. It was a happy exodus, first for the fifteen remaining children, and some weeks later for the publishing staff. How joyful we were to be able to gather in one place again! We were still short of rooms, and some had to live in temporary quarters in a nearby barn. But what did that matter? It was summer, and we enjoyed living in nature.

That autumn we celebrated the engagement of Georg Barth and Monika von Hollander, the first in our community, and an occasion for lots of good fun, especially by the youth. On the morning after the engagement was announced, all the doors and windows were decorated with red hearts, and the old love song, "Who comes up the meadow way?" was sung, with new lines spontaneously added.

The wedding was celebrated on December 4, 1927. In spite of our great poverty – noodle soup was the main dish – it was a very joyful celebration. Red Christmas candles burned on a seven‑armed candlestick that Georg himself had made, and the wedding ceremony and following celebration with coffee and stollen were

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very festive. Guests had been invited and came, among them Georg's sister Hilde.

Instead of taking traditional church vows, the couple answered questions taken from Zinzendorf, whose

words on the meaning of love made a deep impression on all who were there:

"What special mystery does the church of God have?"

"Marriage." "What does the mystery of marriage symbolize?" "It is a symbol of Christ and the church." Holding a burning red candle, Emy-Margret then recited a hymn by Methodius the Martyr, "From above, O virgins," with its chorus, "I dedicate myself to Thee, / And carrying a shining lamp / I go to meet Thee, Bridegroom." Rose Meyer recited Zinzendorf's poem, "We love each other truly," which includes a verse I have always especially liked:

O church, give thy ardent love completely,

With consecrated powers;

For God chose thee from eternity for love.

It is fitting that thy heart embrace

Both those who love thee and who hate thee.

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Moni was several years older than Georg, but standing there in her white corduroy dress, a myrtle wreath in her hair, she looked younger than ever.

After all the festivities, the couple left for a short

honeymoon in Würzburg – that beautiful old city, so rich in history and in architectural treasures inspired by reverence for Mary. The Barth's trip was made possible only with sacrifices; as usual, our finances were strained, and we were heavily in debt. Notes were due, and credit had to be extended, and Else, who had to get the papers in order for all this, made it just in time for the celebration.

I will always remember the Christmas season that followed – our first at the Rhön Bruderhof – as a very special one. In addition to the usual crib scene, we performed a play in which Georg took the part of Simeon, and I the part of Hannah. There were the old and new Christmas songs too, of course, and the hope that filled our hearts each year. How much we longed for the final Advent, the second coming of Christ when peace, joy, and justice will reign for all people!

The period between December 25 and January 1 was known among us in those days as the time "between the years," and we used it for meetings of clarification and renewal. Things that had disturbed the peace between individuals or in the community as a whole were straightened out, and other such matters settled

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and put to rest. It was also a time of reviewing the happenings of the past year and of looking forward into the future. In later years, when the farm and building work was very pressing, we would say to each other,

"We'll have to talk this over some more under the Christmas tree."

That December, just "between the years" of 1927 and 1928, eleven-month-old Ursula Keiderling passed away. One minute the baby was playing happily in her bed; the next her mother Irmgard, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned to find the room full of smoke (a bundle of wet wood had been left drying near the stove) and the child breathing heavily. For the next twenty-four hours we stayed at the little girl's bedside, our hearts heavy with anxiety. The following evening, to our great shock and sorrow, she was taken from us.

After the little body was laid out in the publishing office, a small fir tree with burning candles was set by the bed; later we gathered around it and sang one Christmas lullaby after another: ­"Still, still, still, for Jesus goes to sleep" and "Let's rock the infant tender." A verse from the song, "Down over the mountain the wind's blowing mild" took on special meaning for us:

The Baby awakens and looks up to heav'n.

Then sing, all ye angels, rejoice, all ye men,

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For death now is vanquished,

all pain and sin's might.

Beloved and praised be God in the height!

On December 31 Eberhard and I went to Fulda, hoping to get permission to have the burial on our own land. Unfortunately we arrived at the licensor's office too late, and this plan did not work out. In the end we took the little body to the Catholic cemetery in Veitstein­bach, where we were allowed to hold our own service. Thus the year ended on a serious note, though the nearness of eternity brought us close together as well.

In the midst of life are we

By darkest death surrounded.

Whom shall we seek to give us help?

Where shall we find mercy?

With thee alone, O God!

For a long time after 1922 we had fewer men among our ranks than women. Thus we were all the more joyful when, on the last day of 1927, two young co-workers, Hans Zumpe and Fritz Kleiner, publicly declared their

intent to commit themselves for life to our common way. What an encouragement that was for the new year! Arno Martin had made the same decision a short

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while before, so we now had three young brothers who were able to shoulder greater responsibilities in the community.

1928 and 1929 brought new battles against the spirit

of mammon and the powers of illness. With regard to our finances, it was the same old story as in Sannerz: notes became due, and we were not able to pay them, and two or three of us were constantly on the road in an effort to get our credit ex­tended. This was very costly, both because of the time it took, and the high interest rates. Herr Schreiner, the local sheriff, came nearly every Friday to impound another piece of furniture (or a cow or pig) by affixing a "cuckoo" (a government-issue label with the German eagle on it) to it. Eberhard joked that the sheriff would not need to wait a year (as other guests who wanted to join us did) before becoming a member; after all, he was our guest every week! At one point the court even threatened to put the whole property up for sale by auction. Such drawbacks hampered our ability to build up as quickly as we would have liked to, but they never dampened our conviction. God had entrusted us with a task, and the work must go forward.

Ever since his university days, Eberhard had been fascinated with the radical Anabaptists of the Reformation period, and in the late 1920s this interest

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absorbed him and all of us once again. We were especially eager to learn all we could about the sixteenth-century Hut­terites, for the origins of their communal settlements corresponded in so many ways

to our own. Eberhard studied the history and economic basis of their communities, and at communal meals and meetings we read from their spiritual writings, and from accounts of their martyrs.

As further information about the early Hutterites was borrowed from libraries and archives, we realized how many aspects of their life were similar to ours: we read about their "orders" for communal living, their high standards of hygiene, and – for the sixteenth century, at least – their progressive educational practices. Not that we wanted to copy or imitate any­thing. Yet the more we found out, the closer we felt to them.

In essence, we already had the "services" of a traditional Hutterian community in our own. We had a servant of the Word (pastor), though not by that name; we had a brother to oversee business and financial matters, and another to oversee the work. We also had a housemother, a nurse, a sister who oversaw the practical work, a school principal, and several teachers. These tasks had not been designated as such – they had simply grown out of our life together. But it was the same spirit, calling us to the same witness in our time.

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Some years earlier we had discovered that the Hutterites were still in existence in North America, but we had never initiated contact. Now, while talking in the publishing office one day, Fritz asked me, "What is

it exactly that hinders us from working together with them?" In the discussions that followed, two things became clear: first, we strongly felt that all who sought to live in community of faith and work, in times past or present, must belong to the same ranks. Second, it was once again affirmed that Eberhard and Else and I had never wanted to "found" a movement of our own.

Before long, steps were taken toward a more concrete relationship with the Hutterites. We put together a document stating that we felt called to the same way of discipleship to which they had been called four hundred years earlier, and that we desired to be united with them. Eberhard sent the letter to a certain Elias Walter at a community in Alberta, and we eagerly awaited his reply. When after a long time an envelope arrived, we were somewhat sobered: it contained only a few booklets by Andreas Ehrenpreis, a seventeenthcentury Anabaptist elder. Later, however, we did receive a short acknowledgment of our document. In 1929, letters began to flow more regularly, and as a result of the correspondence, Eberhard was invited to visit the Hutterian communities in Canada in 1930.

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At the same time a dialogue was developing with the Hutterites, the energy that had awakened so many of our fellow German seekers to new life in the postwar years was subsiding. Yes, the Spirit was alive in some

circles, such as the Neu‑Sonnefeld and Eisenach Youth, and there were still similar groups in Switzerland, Holland, and England.

But there was much that had gone sour, too, especially in the Siedlungen or communal settlements that dotted the countryside. Many a commune disbanded as a result of disillusionment, erotic relationships, or fanaticism. Radical idealism was never lacking, but alas, most people were not ready to put their theories into practice.

Leadership was a critical problem in the youth movement: in some groups everyone wanted to determine his own lifestyle, his own work. Some believed that no one ought to be asked by another to do a certain job, and that freedom consisted in the right of each to do what he wanted, whenever he felt like it. People longed for community, yet it was not unusual to hear comments such as, "We have worked under the whip far too long" or "We did not join a settlement just to be ordered around by others" or even "We recognize no authority here." At our Bruderhof, too, the question of freedom and its true meaning was a frequent theme in meetings.

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Guests continued to come, and we were grateful for every one who stayed. Katrin Ebner, a peasant woman from nearby, came to us with her baby, Anna, and was soon a fully committed member. She was the

only one to join us from the immediate neighborhood. Gretel Knott (later Gneiting), a kindergarten teacher, joined us in 1928 – another wonderful addition to our community.

Numerous communists visited us in those years. Some of them were overwhelmed with what they found. Calling us Edel­kommunisten ("noble communists"), they said our life embodied their philosophy's deepest ideals. Others left us full of indignation, especially over our rejection of violence. These told us, "When communism rules the land, you will be the first to hang." Eberhard expressed our belief that as followers of the way of Jesus, we could never resort to violence; nevertheless, we continued to share our conviction that communism and socialism had a vital message for the world, and especially for so-called Christians. Institutional religion was only a stumbling block, for among the established churches, there was not one that had not made common cause with wealth and worldly power. "And if the disciples are silent, the very stones will cry out."

Guests from nationalistic circles came to us, too; I remember long discussions with them about the

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question of national interest above self‑interest, and about Volksgemeinschaft ("national community"), a concept the Nazis would make familiar in their own twisted way in years to come. Even though we searched

for com­mon ground with these guests, there were heated arguments.

The growing popularity of nationalistic ideas held by men like Hitler can be partly understood in the context of this time. Certainly, the war was long over, but Germans were still suffering from the economic ravages of defeat. Food was scarce and prices were high, imported goods were unaffordable, and high unemployment rates created unrest in the larger cities. (At this point I must pay tribute to the help the English Quakers gave so many schools and hospitals, orphanages, and old people's homes throughout those difficult years.) Inflation was not what it had been in the worst years, 1923 and 1924, but paper currency was still undervalued. No wonder that, with all these hardships, people sought a leader to restore order to the country, and that they cared little about his political leanings.

As time went on, more needy children were brought to us. One day the police asked us if we would take an abandoned two-year-old. They had found him

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hanging in a sack from a tree by the roadside, with a note: "Whoever finds this child may keep it." Adolf and Martha Braun (who had two children of their own) took the boy into their family.

Erhard, (as he turned out to be named), had been neglected – he was covered with lice and scabies, and underfed. Under Martha's care he soon thrived, however. As he grew older, we noticed a certain restlessness in him, an urge to rove and ramble, and sometimes he even ran away, though never for long. Unfortunately, some time after Hitler came to power a man showed up on a bicycle one day, claiming he was the boy's father and producing an official paper to that effect. What could we do? The stranger took Erhard with him, and it was the last time we saw the boy.

Then there was "Ulala," another child the gypsies brought to us when he was still a baby. Moni raised Ulala and loved him dearly, but he too was taken back by his family when he was older. They lived in a trailer in a poor area near Fulda, which we visited in an effort to get the boy back, but in vain. Later we heard he died in a Catholic institution.

Walter was one-and-a-half when his mother brought him to us because of unhappy family circumstances. We took him into our own family, and Else faithfully looked after him. After a while he returned to his

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mother, but Else was eventually able to bring him back and legally adopt him.

In the meantime our own children were growing up, and we began to look into the possibility of further education for them outside the Bruderhof. For one thing, we wanted them to find a field or trade that could support them once they were adults. Even more important, we wanted each to be able to make an independent decision regarding their future. We wanted no lame, half-hearted companions on the narrow way we had chosen – neither in our own families, nor among the children we took in and brought up.

To begin with, Emy-Margret was to start training as a kindergarten teacher at a Froebel school at Thale in the Harz Mountains. Hardy went to Bieberstein, a boarding school that taught farming and crafts as well as academic subjects, and Hans Grimm was apprenticed to a carpenter for three years. There were others, too, of course, but only till 1933, when Nazi repression put an end to it all.

During the first years at the Rhön Bruderhof we were all involved in the agricultural work. We had a trained gardener – Walter Hüssy, a religious socialist who joined us from Switzerland in 1929 – but he could

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only do so much. The Sparhof had been neglected so long, and the soil was so poor to begin with, that farming never really provided a sufficient basis for a livelihood.

Garden vegetables ripened late because of the high altitude of the Rhön and the prevailing cold winds, and the potatoes came to an end in spring, after which our food was always especially meager until the next harvest came in. We grew our own wheat, but it was barely enough to last us the six months from fall to spring. On top of that we had no money to buy bread. I still remember how, after a guest donated fifty marks, we sent one of the children to the village to buy bread straight away! At birthdays, a loaf of bread replaced the cake – and many preferred it.

In a 1928 "letter to our guests," a sort of house rule given to each visitor, we advised anyone who insisted on having bread to provide his own, as our harvest was poor and we could not promise sufficient food – not even for our own members. Some found this hard to accept. Simplicity, they said, they could understand. But bread? That was a basic necessity, and surely it was not asking too much to have enough on hand. But at times that was simply the way things were.

In one of our favorite songs ("We plough the fields and scatter"), instead of the lines, "He gives the cattle pasture / And to our children bread," we sometimes

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sang, "He gives the children pasture / And to our cattle bread." It was no joke, really – while the cows were fed as much grain as possible to ensure good milk for the children, the rest of us had to be content with meal

after meal of wild meadow spinach.

When (for the first time after many years) we had hogs to slaughter and were able to add pork to our diet, many of us got upset stomachs. We simply were not used to meat anymore.

The health of several was poor, and not only because of malnutrition. Else, who had lost half of her stomach through an operation, suffered from tuberculosis, as did Emy-Margret. During one especially bad period, the doctors gave Else only a few days to live, yet when we prayed for her, she recovered, and before we knew it she was back at work, resuming a full schedule as Eberhard's secretary.

To improve our long‑term food situation we decided to plant windbreaks on the hill behind our houses, where only heather was growing. In the fall of 1932, with the aid of a Baptist youth group who came to staff a "work camp," we set out hundreds of spruce and larch saplings. We also planted cherry, plum, and apple trees.

In spite of the hardships of these years, our children's com­munity had kept growing, and in 1928 we had built a new children's house. Thanks to a friendly local of-

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ficial, District Administrator von Gagern, we were able to secure a favorable long‑term building loan from the government. Georg drew up the plans and Fritz supervised the actual operation. There was tremendous

excitement the day we finally broke ground (on the site of a dilapidated old barn), and the whole community gathered to celebrate. What a joy it was to see the walls of this first self-built house go up on our land, regardless of the shortage of cash!

For the opening of the children's house we invited officials from Kassel and Fulda. It happened to be the day the court had previously set for an auction of our property, but luckily this was averted at the last minute by an unexpected gift of 5,000 Swiss francs from a friend. I still remember the song we sang at this dedication ceremony – the old German student ballad, "We built up a house that was stately and strong," with its courageous vision for the future, no matter the odds:

The house may be ruined –

We count not the loss;

The Spirit lives among us

And our stronghold is God.

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Some four years earlier, Eberhard had shared with our circle a dream of his own: he visualized a day when all manner of people – industrialists, professionals, workers, teachers, washerwomen, and the poorest of

the poor – would come to us in a great procession, all wanting to live in community. Eberhard not only hoped for such a day; he firmly believed it would come. Therefore our main task, he said, was to make room for all these people, to build up a future home for them.

At first I could not grasp this at all. Yes, we were planning to eventually buy all seven farmsteads of the Sparhof, and to gradually improve them. But even after this was achieved, I did not see how we could possibly accommodate and support more than 200 to 250 people. Eberhard, on the other hand, had no patience for such worries: his vision for the future sprang from faith, not from human calculations and projections.

Sometimes I felt like the hunter in a popular folk song, who sings: "I cannot keep up with your long, high leaps." I said this in a meeting, too, so everyone could know how I felt, and at the next mealtime, this refrain was sung over and over to tease me: "Hu-sa-sa, tralala-la / I cannot keep up with your long, high leaps!" Some time later, during a visit to my husband's mother in Breslau, we were able to talk things over thoroughly, and Eberhard and I came to a complete understanding.

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I shall never forget those lively talks as we walked in the park.

In those years of building up we often read in our meetings about the moving of the spirit in past centuries. The more we steeped ourselves in the Radical Reformation of the sixteenth-century, the more it appealed to all of us. Here we sensed a communal spirit that pervaded every aspect of life and carried over right into the struggle for peace, justice, and equality. The writings of Hans Denck, Balthasar Hubmaier, and other Anabaptists especially captivated us, but also those of Thomas Münzer, an outstanding fighter for the suffering people of his day. To us, Münzer was no different from leaders of the working class movement in our own time, men such as Hermann Kutter, Leonhard Ragaz, and (until his death in 1919) Gustav Landauer.

Like the early Anabaptists – and like these contemporary radicals – we did not feel that protesting was enough, though we did that, too. (After Walter Rathenau and Kurt Eisner were assassinated, for instance, we participated in marches and rallies against political murder.2) We were determined to find positive answers to the crises of our time, and again and again we found them in the building up of a life of brotherhood for all men and women.

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American Journey

The time for a journey to North America came closer. Eberhard was corresponding with the Hutterites in South Dakota and Mani­toba, and our small circle was eager to send him, and perhaps a second person, to visit them for six months. From the first, we felt a reverence for their four centuries of communal living; and as I have already said, the many things we read about their history gave us a sense of belonging to them.

After the crisis of 1922 we had often felt isolated, even though people continued to join us, and we cherished the hope that through our contact with the Hutterian movement, new horizons would open for us. Then, too, there were our continuing financial straits, and our hope that the American Hutterites would be willing to share with fellow believers. Though some of the letters that came from them encouraged us in this regard, others were disappointing, so we did not know what to expect from this trip. Were today's Hutterites

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still guided by the same spirit of radical faith-based communism as their forebears?

It was characteristic of our life in those years that nothing was won without struggle, and so it was

with this trip to America. Early in 1930, Eberhard had a severe inflammation in his left eye, which was practically blind. He had injured it many years before in a skiing accident, and again later in Sannerz, when a splinter flew into it while he was chopping wood and caused detachment of the retina.

In May, just before Eberhard's departure from Germany, the eye became inflamed again. Despite this he continued to prepare for his journey, especially by studying further his growing collection of old Hutterian writings. The eye grew worse, and I insisted on taking Eberhard to the doctor. While there, I was called into the office and advised to keep my husband from taking such a long journey with his eye in as poor condition as it was. Eberhard would not hear of it. "Do let me go!" he pleaded. "We've always dared everything in faith!"

The day before he left, Eberhard baptized nine new members at a spring in our woods. The next morning Else and I accompanied him as far as Fulda, where we met our son, Hardy, who had traveled down from Bieb­erstein to see his father off. And so he set out.

Naturally we were all eager to hear what Eberhard would find in the Hutterian communities.

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Unfortunately, though we received dozens of letters from him, they were a long time coming. Transatlantic mail went only by ship in those days and usually took many weeks. Cables were expensive, and very rare.

Often we felt completely out of touch.

I will not write about the Hutterites and our contact with them in detail here, since Eberhard's own words tell best what all he experienced. The excerpts that follow are from his letters to me:

On board the S.S. Karlsruhe, June 1 and 2, 1930.

My eye is supposed to heal by the time I reach New York.

I am diligently treating it and have faith in Christ, who

wants to make the inner light good to be a light for the

body, and the outer eye for the way. The kingdom must

always be first for us.

Chicago, June 18, 1930.

At last my eye is so much better that today I have had

practically no pain at all. In New York and Scottdale,

Pennsylvania, the love of the very faithful and very

punctual and very earnest Mennonites left me no time,

and even less strength, for writing. So I squeezed in one

day in an expensive hotel. I am spending the day in my

room, with no intention of going out at all, in order to

think and write in quiet to you, to the children, and to

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the whole faithful Bruderhof, and also to take care of my

eye.

The services of the Mennonite Church last many

hours and are amazingly lively. The Bible is read in

enormously long sections. The last hour – exactly

sixty minutes – was given to me. As a message for

the Mennonites, I took our special theme: the event

of Pentecost in Jerusalem with all its consequences.

I strongly emphasized Christ's gospel and then

spoke about complete love and community, in which

everything belongs to God and to the community of

the Spirit. On their express wish I then told about my

personal development, about you and Halle, Leipzig,

and Berlin. I witnessed to the Sermon on the Mount and

tried to awaken their religious-social conscience…

At the end I told about Sannerz and the Rhön

Bruderhof, and about the children's community,

emphasizing that it was not my task to bear witness

to our Bruderhof, but that our Bruderhof has to bear

witness to the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, with all its

consequences. I closed by reciting Emy-Margret's song.

At the final words, "And Jesus Christ before them goes,

/ And after him run all who can," I ran back to my seat,

and joyful laughter closed the talk.

According to John Horsch [a Mennonite historian and

friend of the Hutterites who helped arrange Eberhard's

travel plans] it should not be hard for me to understand

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the language of the Hutterites. Their Tyrolean-Bavarian

dialect will not be a problem, but my all-too-abstract

German may be difficult for them. Well, perhaps I will

come home a simple peasant, also in speech.

He has also told me many good things about the

leaders of the Hutterites…It is true that one of them,

David Hofer of Rockport, has been cautious and cool

regarding my upcoming visit to the communities, but

that may be on account of my fundraising hopes. David

apparently estimates that to finance a Bruderhof takes

$250,000, which is more than a million marks. Well, I

can see why he would be worried about that! Let's hope

I will be able to find the right way. But the main thing is

our witness to unity in the Spirit!

Harold Bender wrote a good letter to the Hutterites

on our behalf, sharing his impressions of us. He calls

us true Baptizers in the Hutterian sense, and describes

our poverty and our communal life; he writes about our

rejection of modern liberalism and about our Biblicism,

which, he agrees, is far removed from pietism and is

rather a matter of honest conviction. He said that with

us there is deed as well as words, which moves him very

deeply.

Tabor, South Dakota, June 24, 1930.

The brothers and sisters are very kind to me and

send love to you all. The spirit and reality of today's

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Hutterianism far surpasses my expectations. There is

a living relationship with God, and a deep faith in the

Holy Spirit and in Christ's redemption. They are well

aware of the church's need for the Holy Spirit to come

to us and speak to us again and again. Good discipline

is kept by speaking openly, not behind a person's

back. Joy and cheerfulness are constantly expressed in

good-natured joking, and on a deeper level in quoting

words of faith from the Bible, from popular proverbs

or past experiences. The simplicity of the life is still

fairly pure. For example, no Bruderhof has a car, nor

does anyone wish to buy one. The older people, but

also many of the younger ones, have deep joy in their

life and in the flaring fire of first love that leads to

community. Still, their material wealth is hard for me to

understand.

Wolf Creek, South Dakota, July 15, 1930.

The doctor has been treating my eye for weeks, but has

not yet allowed reading or writing…But I believe the days

are not lost. From my bed I experienced the daily life of

the people here in a special way, and could take it in and

reflect on everything that came my way. The faith of the

Hutterites is real and genuine. It is deeply rooted in the

hearts of all. They do not want to – they cannot – live any

other way than in community. The practical forgetting

of self in the service of the community is far stronger

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than with us. The seriousness of the divine witness to

the truth is strong even in the simplest members. Their

prayer life is touching. It moved me particularly when I

was Michel Waldner's guest and slept in his room: I saw

the old man praying in the dark by his big wooden chest,

his knees bent, his hands held up to God before his face

with a wonderful dignity and reverence. It is the early

Christian attitude of prayer…

America has not lived through the judgment of a

world war or revolution, and the social conscience of

the people is not awake. There is no feeling for God's

kingdom and his justice, and one preaches to deaf ears.

Mammon reigns undisputed over the religious and

the irreligious alike. All the same the Hutterites are

conscious of their lack of missionary outreach. Perhaps

because of this they expect more from us than we have to

give…David [Hofer] said recently, "If Arnold has come

from Germany to look for what we had in the old days,

he will be very dissatisfied with us, if only because of our

great possessions in land and money." He is very much

distressed about the way things have developed…

Rockport, South Dakota, July 26, 1930.

The task I have here is too great to be accomplished in

a short time. You know that I am not by nature slow to

fulfill a duty once recognized, especially in the face of

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pressing need. But my quickness to act has not always

been a good thing!

Lake Byron, South Dakota, August 5, 1930.

The confirmation of my leadership as an Hutterian

servant of the Word [pastor] is coming closer. When I

think of the twelve articles of the Apostolic creed and of

Peter Rideman's momentous Confession…I feel my own

weakness and sinfulness so strongly that I would like to

see someone else from our circle in this position. But I

dare not shirk it.

Winnipeg, Manitoba, August 1930.

Peter Hofer [a Hutterite minister] says repeatedly that

the awakening, vitalizing, and unifying of American

Hutterianism will have to come through us. And

Joseph, the younger Kleinsasser [another minister]

emphasizes – probably too much – that my visit and

our "new zeal" has great significance for them. Joseph

Kleinsasser, the group's elder, acknowledges that our

beginning is right, especially in those areas where he

feels we are more radical, and more Hutterian, than his

own people. But he is against forcing the establishment

of formal ties…He is a man of faith, of the Spirit, a man

who really seems to depend entirely on God.

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Winnipeg, August 25, 1930.

The promises of financial help that I have been able to

confirm… are still few and far between. David Hofer of

James Valley and Joseph Waldner of Huron, two of the

most important representatives of the movement here,

feel we have been tested and proven sufficiently by the

fact that we have lasted several years and preserved

our orders. They are enthusiastic about our basis and

feel that for my confirmation I need only answer the

questions prescribed by their order.

Most nights I have open discussions with members

of the various communities here until midnight,

sometimes until one o'clock. That is where I receive the

strongest impressions of the faith, love, and firmness

of the brothers and sisters. They all take part in these

discussions and are eager to hear anything I can tell

them about you.

Winnipeg, September 4, 1930.

I can't describe to you the deep joy I feel when I read

your wonderful letters. I wish I could answer them

all…In contrast to Germany, the elderly people here

are for the most part much more lively. But many of

the young adults begin their long search to attain the

same depth of faith only at baptism…There are definite

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problems among the youth, and I do not think fears of a

threatening decline are unfounded.

The love and gratitude with which I am welcomed

here is proof of a longing, of faith, and of pulsating life.

I am embarrassed when people say I should become the

leader for all communities, so as to draw them together

and lead them in mission. I know only too well that I

would be the wrong person for this…

They all say, "You pray for mission, but your Bruderhof

with its guests is mission." Their understanding of

mission is to seek out the "zealous" – and only these – to

challenge and gather them, and call them home. David

Hofer of Rockport said, "If the church is right, then

there will be mission, if not, there will be none." People

here feel we should stay in Germany as long as we can

maintain our zeal, and as long as school authorities and

other government agencies do not hamper our efforts…

To summarize, let me say that even today's Hutterites,

with all their weaknesses, are so unique in their almost

perfect communal life, their simplicity and modesty,

that as far as we know there is nothing in Europe that

even approaches it. Everything we expected from the

Fellowship Movement, the youth movement, and the

Religious Socialists can be found here, though again,

as with every group, there are unmistakable signs of

weakness.

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Cardston, Alberta, October 2, 1930.

Today is the 2nd of October, that day in 1899 when I

had the first conscious encounter with our Savior and

Redeemer Jesus Christ. At that time you too, as a child,

were already deeply impressed by our beloved Jesus,

and gave yourself to him completely. I am confident that

the uniting with the Hutterites will bring to you and me

and all of us the fulfillment of faith's longing of so many

years.

Lethbridge, Alberta, October 8, 1930.

Now I am going through what you predicted: that I

would not be able to bear for long the separation from

you, from our children, from our home, and from our

dear, faithful brothers and sisters…But I must and will

hold out.

Here in Lethbridge, as elsewhere, the Hutterites are very

loving and interested, and have very warm hearts for our

cause. And yet still, up to this day, I can hardly speak

about the pressing need of our financial situation, a

need that is unknown here. Everybody is of the opinion,

with the well-known rigid firmness of the Hutterites,

that the things of the spirit must come first, and only

then the temporal can be considered. Where I can do

so without hurting our cause, I bring up the issue of

the $25,000 I would like to bring home at Christmas.

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Hutterian naiveté responds with earnest eyes: "So much

all at once?"

Lethbridge, October 23, 1930.

You will be worried by now [that I have not written for

so long], and indeed it was my eye again. The treatment

cost a whole week and $35…

I want to visit the communities again, more slowly

this time. If I go too fast, it immediately puts the strain

on my eye – especially if I have to share a bed with old

Andreas [an elderly minister]! At the same time I am

pursued and overwhelmed by all the love. I am worried

that they expect too much of me. On the other hand,

they are giving me a wealth of old writings to bring

home, which will be a great help to us in our publishing

work.

Milford, Alberta, October-November 1930.

Today I am to travel to a community near Wilson – in

a closed car, as riding in an open wagon with a brisk

wind has done my eye no good. You can imagine that

the enthusiasm of all the brothers and sisters who come

thronging to me at every place doesn't give me a minute

of rest. This is not a complaint. As Johannes Wurz says,

we should thank God that such an awakening has come

about through my visit, from which many (though not

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all) expect a spiritual renewal…The worst part of it is

that my departure date has come into question because

of urgent requests from Elias Walter. Please don't do

anything to hinder this. Every fiber in me is urging me

homewards, but the goal of this costly and strenuous

journey must not be endangered by our impatience and

longing.

Crow's Nest, British Columbia, November 30, 1930.

I can hardly endure it anymore to be separated from

you for so long, and to be so far away from the beloved

circle of our old and new, faithful co-fighters – from the

unique spirit and life of our Bruderhof. At practically

all communities the meetings have been wonderful,

with hours of uninterrupted attentiveness and

enthusiasm. I am so much sought after that neith­-

­er in Lethbridge nor in Mac­leod, Cardston, nor Calgary,

nor even in smal­ler places, have I had so much as half a

day's rest for writing, without being found out and taken

somewhere. The brothers and sisters are easily hurt

if a "guest from so far away, and one who lives in real

community," has no time for a brotherly talk!

The Rockies, Nov. 26, 1930.

How happy, how joyful I am for the clear guidance

you have been given through the Holy Spirit during

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all these months. How faithfully you have responded

to the brothers and sisters of the communities, once

led by Jakob Hutter with the glowing fire of love and

with equally fiery discipline! In the same way you have

courageously accepted their well-tested traditions and

orders, with minimal questioning, which humanly

speaking would have been quite understandable. And

now you have a veritable treasury of writings that

radiate the Spirit – dozens and dozens of handwritten

books, pamphlets, and leaflets, among them more than

fifty very old pieces. Few if any of the communities here

have such a precious collection of old handwritings.

The brothers' love to us is so great that they surely

will not let us down as regards our requests for financial

help. However, with their persistent thoroughness, all

this will take time…Be assured that I will come home as

quickly as possible – as soon as my task of finding unity

and support for my service and for the economy of our

Bruderhof is completed, at least to a certain degree.

Trust that you will all be guided through everything

in unity through God's Spirit. Be openhearted and ready

for one another. Have joy in one another! You have every

reason for this. Together with your youthfulness in God,

preserve your feeling for purity and unity in the Spirit.

But become free, and remain free, from touchiness,

from worrying that you may be treated differently from

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others, also in your duties and services! There is really

no cause for this.

Rejoice that you are all different, and do not try to make

everyone's special qualities equal and uniform – that

would only paralyze and extinguish them. Community

is alive only when there is living reciprocity. Therefore

rejoice in your diversity and never resent it…Yes, there

are things that can never be allowed: selfishness and

pettiness, gossiping, envy and jealousy, fear and worry.

Like self-seeking and self-will, these cause nothing

but loss and damage. But no one has so few gifts as to

make himself totally useless through his concern with

these trivialities. I plead with you, persevere and stand

together in unity and love and joy. Don't waste a single

meeting on discussions that would be unnecessary if

you stood together more faithfully, more firmly, more

trustingly, and more gratefully…

I earnestly ask you: Carry your great and holy

responsibility steadfastly, like a burning light in your

hands. For the sake of this light, do not let yourselves

be pushed, shaken, or knocked over! Then the radiance

of your burning candles will shine over to me as in a

vision, and will strengthen me and lead me back with

everything you need. You know that the incarnation

of the Creator and his word of love, and Jesus' words

and work through the outpouring of his Spirit, is the

strength in which you can do everything.

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Therefore let no foreign, dark, unclear, or apathetic

spirit enter among you, not even through guests,

relatives, old and new friends, or other visitors. Let

nothing, not the slightest thing, come among you that

offends Jesus Christ, his redemption of the world, his

humility in the manger and on the cross, his outpoured

Spirit of unity and purity.

Lethbridge, for Christmas and for your birthday.

Our sacrifices are finally bearing fruit. God, who guides

everything, has used even my infected eye to move the

brothers so that at last they are opening their cautious

hearts to the cause entrusted to us in Germany…And so

I write to you as a real Hut­terian brother.

On December 9, the brothers unanimously decided

to accept me and incorporate me into the Hutterian

Church. I will write about this in detail as soon my

confirmation as a servant of the Word has taken place

[December 17]…

The fact that I have been taken in as a member should

mean that we will be taken care of as brothers and

sisters, that the time of begging for alms should be over,

and that the time for building up and for mission should

begin.

Because of the injection for my eye treatment, I

cannot write more today. May God grant that I may

return to you soon, and with answers to the many needs

of our Bruderhof…

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So far, the following has been arranged and planned:

Each debt-free community is to contribute $1000 to

our cause; and each half-indebted community $500.

Completely indebted communities will not be expected

to contribute. In addition to this, thirty high-grade work

horses are to be sent overseas, and fifteen high-grade

milk cows.

Stand Off, Alberta, December 25 and 31, 1930.

There is no other course for me than to travel once more

through the Alberta communities to gather the sums

we need. It will be very strenuous for me…my nervous

system and my body, and perhaps also my inner life have

not adjusted to all this traveling. I am totally exhausted.

Yet I must gather all my strength to carry on with raising

the funds necessary for our building up.

Old Christian, the minister who presided at the

big confirmation meeting of twenty-one servants,

is unwilling to give more significant support, as his

Bruderhof has exhausted its funds in a large purchase of

land. There is only one way of storming these fortresses,

and that is to besiege them continuously, like the

persistent widow…

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Lethbridge, February 1931.

I have visited twelve more communities, though only

with partial success. Our beloved Bruderhof! For me it

is still the best, the only possible one. I have been deeply

convinced of that here, also that we should remain in

Germany as long as possible, in part because the people

of Europe are again struggling and suffering so much.

Lethbridge, February 1931.

The fund-raising is moving forward again, though

slowly – so slow­ly that I would give up hope of ever

gathering what we need, were it not for the higher faith

that guides me. So I must persist.

Lethbridge, March 1931.

Now my departure is finally here! There is my worn-out

Hut­terian suit and two hats for our "museum." Also to

be saved for the museum – and not used – is a broom

made and presented to me by Jakob of Old Elm Spring,

who is over seventy.

South Dakota, April 10, 1931.

One thing I know: I will never again undertake such a

journey alone, without you! True, I have found the best

of care wherever I went. But it was very hard to be so far

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away from that singularly fresh spirit of Sannerz and the

Rhön Bruderhof.

Radio-telegram, May 1, 1931.

On the ship at last! Meet me Bremerhaven Sunday,

May 10. Happy, your Eberhard.

Eberhard's reception by the Hutterites varied considerably from place to place. He deeply appreciated the love and trust shown him by most of the communities; yet on the other hand, he was troubled by many things he saw. For one, there seemed to be little real sharing beyond that within a given community. Some farms were large and well-to-do, while others were poor and deeply in debt. The question of technology was also a difficult one for him; he felt it that in some quarters at least, it was the machine that controlled the man, and not man the machine. Worse, the Hutterite communities were divided into three separate groups or Leut ("people"). How, he asked, could this possibly be in keeping with the Spirit, with the love that gives and shares everything, the love from which a unified church community can arise and endure?

Eberhard spoke many times to the Hutterites about all these things, especially on the basis of their own early writings. After all, aside from their embrace of more modern farming methods, they were very

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tradition-bound, especially in outward forms such as their peasant-style costumes. In reaction to the Catholic liturgy, they rejected not only the organ and piano, but even flutes, fiddles and guitars. As for photographs,

they quoted the Old Testament prohibition against graven images (yet forgot its main point: "You shall not worship them!") Eberhard had many discussions about these things, for they seemed unnecessarily harsh, but the elders would not yield.

Of course, they also questioned him about our practices, in particular smoking. Remarkably, they did not object to alcohol, something we could have understood; though as the case was, we were too poor to have any. Naturally, when these and many other questions came to our attention through Eberhard's letters, it gave us pause. Much as we felt we had to learn from the Hutterites, we did not want to place ourselves under laws and regulations that were not born out of our own living experience.

Interestingly, though we appreciated all of the old, handwritten manuscripts Eberhard was given, we found the writings of their earliest sixteenth-century founders most striking; they, on the contrary, preferred the less pithy, more pietistic teachings of later forebears, and felt these were better suited to their life.

When our incorporation into the Hutterian Church was confirmed in December 1930, we tried with Eber-

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hard to do justice to their sixteenth-century origins. We were keenly aware of the streams that had influenced our own beginnings: the revival movement, the Free German Youth, religious-socialism, and the ferment in

the working class. But we also saw that, as products of our own confused times, these movements had their defects and lacked eternal meaning in many ways.

Not everything that went with the uniting was easy for us. The Hutterite costume for women, with its head covering or Kopftuch, was not hard for us to accept. Indeed, we were glad to adopt the simple peasant style. The brothers' dress was a different matter. We did not like the required blacks and dark grays, but preferred the brighter colors of the youth movement. All the same, it was not a question of conscience, and we were willing to take on anything that might further our unity.

Giving up photographs and musical instruments seemed to us a much greater sacrifice. Pictures could often say much more than words! And hiking together with flutes and guitars…and all the beautiful folk songs and songs of religious awakening – all this belonged to our life. Still, how could we refuse to yield on this or that point – to re-think everything – if it led to greater unity with others? Wasn't that of far greater worth? We mulled over such questions often during Eberhard's absence.

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In general, things at home went smoothly enough during Eber­hard's year away, though we missed him dearly and often ached to be with him. Hans Zumpe, then twenty-three, had been asked to take Eberhard's

place, and the rest of us tried to support him as best we could. Certainly life was not without struggles. Ambition and arrogance – the perpetual enemies of community life – raised their heads soon after Eberhard had left, and several times we had to occupy ourselves with our weaknesses. But Hans saw the way clearly and kept to it with love and firmness. As always, we were confident that if a problem was taken up unitedly – that is, in the spirit that seeks a common solution – it could be overcome.

Many guests came in the summer of 1930; in particular I remember a work camp we hosted for Erich Mohr and his Free German Youth. With the help of our brothers, the work campers drained a wet meadow, and we had had many lively discussions with them. All in all, however, it did not lead to much. For many of them, vegetarianism seemed to be the consuming issue.

Eberhard's letters were received with great interest, and we read each of them in our meetings. From time to time money came too, as often as he was able to send it, and this was a great help in stopping some of the gaps. But as usual we were still extremely short of money.

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On our wedding anniversary, December 20, news came via cable that the uniting with all three Hutterite groups – the Lehrerleut, Dariusleut, and Schmiedeleut – had taken place. There was great rejoicing, also

because Eberhard's return now seemed imminent. But the next news tempered our happiness: he planned to visit all the communities again to beg for funds.

When Eberhard finally did return the next spring, we were disappointed at the overall results of his strenuous efforts. In the end, considering their circumstances, the forty-odd Hutterite communities had given precious little toward our building up. But we had no choice, no desire, except to continue, even if the work was laborious and slow. For us, every new day we could share was pure joy.

A Joyful Pilgrimage Between Time and Eternity

Between Time and Eternity

Eberhard's long awaited return on May 10, 1931, was a tremendous joy and strengthening. Hans Zumpe and I went to Bremerhaven to meet him on May 9, for the ship was expected as early as six o'clock the next morning. We stood on the dock and watched the ship approaching from a distance. There were many people on the decks, waving to their relatives, but hard as we tried we could not see Eberhard. Finally we discovered him, standing alone in the stern of the ship. In all the joy of being safely home, the fact that he had returned without the hoped for financial help for the community was still a burden to him. Yet what a reunion after a whole year's absence! There was so much we had to tell each other, first with Hans, and then the two of us alone.

Else, unfortunately, was not there. She was suffering from tuberculosis again, and (through the kindness of our friend Friedrich Wilhelm Foerster) convalescing in the home of a friend in Switzerland. Else stayed on

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in this home until July, for we knew that as soon as she returned, her work as Eberhard's secretary would completely consume her.

Emy-Margret and Hardy were both home when

their father arrived; she had passed her exams as kindergarten teacher the previous fall, and he had finished his last year at the Gymnasium (secondary school) at Easter. Having been away for three years, Hardy was to help in the farm work for a year before going on to Tübingen University. Both children had decided to stay with the community and had become members, which was a great encouragement to Eber­hard and me.

In one of the first members' meetings after Eber­hard's return, we decided on wedding dates for the four engaged couples in our circle: Leo Dreher and Trautel Fischli, Alfred Gnei­ting and Gretel Knott, Hans Zumpe and Emy-Mar­gret Arnold, and Wal­ter Hüssy and Trudi ­Dal­gas.

Preparing a living space for each one was easier said than done, since we con­stantly had to find accom­modations for new mem­bers and children as well, and there were very few resources available. Much of the money sent home by Eber­hard over the course of his year away had been used to pay outstanding debts; on top of this, several creditors had been put off until his return.

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Nevertheless, we were able to set up a room for each of the new couples. We made the furniture ourselves, all in the same plain style, but stained different shades of red, rust, and brown. The rooms were painted in

bold colors – orange, yellow, light green. Each couple had a bed, a table, a corner bench, two chairs, and a washstand. Bright curtains hung at the windows.

Hans and Emy-Margret's wedding took place in July and was crowned by the joy of having Else home again from Switzerland. She was no longer able to work fulltime, but she did what she could, typing up letters and minutes of meetings. Sometimes she did this in a deck chair outdoors; later she grew so weak that she could only work from her bed, in a little hut that had been fixed up especially for her.

Although the help expected from our new North American brothers had not materialized, 1931–1932 was the period of greatest growth since our communal life had begun. The building went ahead feverishly, sometimes on three sites at once. Two new houses were built, as well as a pigsty, a horse stable, and a bakery. New workshops were set up too. All the money that came in was used for construction; nothing was left in the bank. Each day brought new joys. After so many years when much time and energy had gone into simply obtaining enough money to keep afloat, we were finally building up!

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New families joined us from Switzerland, first Hans and Else Boller, and then Peter and Anni Mathis in 1932 and Hans and Margrit Meier in early 1933. The two latter families came from the Werkhof, a religious-

socialist community near Zurich. Single young people from Switzerland came too: Lini Rudolf, Margot Savoldelli, and Julia Lerchy. All of these new members were a great help in our building up; unbelievably, they also brought with them a combined sum of money that matched almost exactly the amount we had hoped to receive from the Hutterites.

Others came too – shortand long-term guests, and people who wanted to join us for good, among them Annemarie Wächter (who later married our son Heinrich) and Ria Kiefer. Nils Wingaard and Dora Sääf, both Swedes, came to us as an engaged couple shortly after Eberhard's return and decided to stay; they were married in the autumn of 1932. Friedel Sondheimer, one of our first Jewish members, came during Eberhard's absence.

Many guests came with difficult personal needs or unusual world­views. People with illnesses, including some with mental illness, came seeking help. Individual cases are difficult to report; it is perhaps enough to say that there were both victories and defeats.

How stimulating and exciting they were, those evenings we spent with them under the great beech tree

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on the brow of the hill behind our house! Sometimes the discussions centered on issues brought up by our visitors and new members: national socialism, for example, and vegetarianism; education, property, the

roles of church and state, differing views on marriage and the family, and many other topics. At other meetings we continued to work through the various aspects of Hutterianism that were still a question for us.

Often, as in the earlier years of our life together, we completely forgot the time. If a good discussion with guests developed at lunch or dinner, it could happen that the meal continued for hours. At times these lengthy communal exchanges conflicted with our work, but that did not matter. We wanted everyone to join in the experience. After all, we felt it was these meetings more than anything else that kept us centered on the very reasons we were living together.

In the midst of this joyful time we also had a frightening experience. Because of the added pressures of buildings going up on three sites at once, we had employed workers from the neighborhood, and every Friday, someone would go to Fulda in our buggy to get money for their wages. On one of these paydays, in October 1931, Hans Zumpe and Arno Martin were driving home through the fog with more than 500 marks when two masked men stopped their wagon

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at gunpoint. Standing in front of the wagon, their guns pointed at our brothers' chests, they demanded, "Give us the money, or we'll shoot!" Hans refused, and crossed his arms over his chest to protect his wallet. In

the end, the men didn't shoot, but seized the wallet by force and made off with it. What a terrible shock it was when Arno burst in some time later to tell us what had happened! Yet we were grateful to God, too – both for the fact that our two brothers had not been harmed and that they had not voluntarily handed over the money, which belonged not to them but to the church!

We did not inform the police about the attack. We did, however, invite our neighbors and especially our employed workers to a meeting to tell them what had happened, and asked them that if they ever found out anything about it, they might aid us in seeing that the money was returned. (Despite this the theft was never solved.)

Many years later, in a letter the District Administrator von Gagern wrote me for what would have been Eberhard's seventieth birthday, he mentioned this incident: "I have often admired the consistency of the Bruderhof members in their Christian attitude. For example, two brothers who were carrying the week's pay for their workers – one of them a giant with the strength of a bear – were attacked in the woods by masked figures. Remembering the words of the Savior,

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they did not defend themselves, but let themselves be robbed."

From October on, Else's health went downhill, and by the end of the year she was so close to death that we

knew she would not last much longer. On January 11, 1932, she died – my dear sister, my steadfast friend, my playmate and companion from childhood on.

One year after her death I wrote these lines:

…Why are my longings so earthly

that in my thoughts I seek you

at your place of work, in your devotions,

in the dress you wore when you were here,

when you were still here among us?

How often I am lost in thought

and think: she must come back! Or

waking and dreaming, look with longing,

expecting your return!

There is such pain within me, knowing

that never again am I

to see you as you were…

your loyal face, your eyes warm with love.

And yet your answer comes to me –

as from another world:

"Why do you seek the living here,

Why seek among the dead?"

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Eternity means fulfillment,

fulfillment of life, of work, of time.

The words of John come to my mind:

"There shall be no more sorrow,

no separation shall there be,

for the first life, it is over!"

And thus I ask, as bound with you,

you who have gone before us:

Lord, come thou soon and bring thy rule;

unite all who are given thee,

unite us in the Body of Christ,

dwelling of divine promise!

It is more than thirty years ago that Else left us. But her witness to the powers of eternity is still alive in my memory, and the bond I feel with her and others who have gone on remains strong. Else was with us even before the start of our community – from the time of our awakening in 1907 – and she was always one of our closest helpers and co-fighters. She was loved by old and young. There was something of the spirit of St. Francis in her: in spite of her many tasks and her devotion to her work, she always had time for the needs of others, and not only those within our own ranks. Her trips in the neighborhood and farther afield to beg for help were never without results. Who could resist this

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person, so frail in body, but so aflame with enthusiasm and love?

A circular letter sent by Eberhard to our friends in June 1932 says much about Else's last illness that I

would like to say, and so I include it here:

The death of Jesus Christ and the death of the martyrs

of old were constantly before the eyes of our dying

sister, so that she had to testify, "Nothing greater

could have happened than the death of Christ. That

is the greatest thing, and in it God's mercy shows

itself, mercy in judgment." Else was so deeply

gripped by her longing for Jesus and for the kingdom

of heaven that she said over and over: "The Spirit

and the bride speak: Come! Amen, yes, come, Lord

Jesus. The powers of eternity are very near. I am the

same weak person I have always been; that has not

changed. But Christ's nearness is stronger than ever,

so that I am quite far from what happens here and

now, and quite close to what is happening there,

in heaven. And yet I am also close to God's present

history, but it is as if I was looking at it from another

star. For myself, I cannot think or wish for anything

earthly." One of her very last requests was, "Lift me up;

help me to hold my head up."

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On January 1, 1932, she said, "This new year will be

a very special one, a year of great struggles and of great

building up. But there is no life here on earth without

struggle. The new life must come through death."

Another time she said, "Eternity is something one

cannot understand or grasp. Eternity has always been,

will always be. Eternity is very close to me, and its

powers are coming to me from God. The greatest thing in

God is his mercy. It is so wonderful! And it is wonderful

to live in brotherhood. The love and faithfulness of

our brotherhood is a miracle. It is incredible that such

a thing is possible. How much I love them all! And

how dear they all are. A strengthening in mind and

spirit must come to the young. In the struggle against

themselves they must be set free from all unclarities and

all touchiness, giving their strength in steady work. I see

clearly that the Bruderhof will grow very large, and I am

glad that I was allowed to be part of the small beginning.

Its influence on the whole world will be important,

also through mission. I will experience this with you

from eternity and will surely be able to help a little

too. As often as the spirit of the church unites you and

strengthens you for the work, I will be with you. For in

the Holy Spirit the whole church is among you. The Holy

Spirit brings the Jerusalem above down to you.

"I am so very thankful for the gift of unity. Unity in

the Spirit and in the things of the Spirit – that is what

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endures. Everything we do may express that unity, but it

is only an expression. Unity itself is different and greater

than all outward expressions. If it is to endure, it must

be built only on the Spirit. The expression perishes, but

the unity endures.

"It is a wonderful thing to adore God. I should like

to worship him always. God is so good, so very good."

She turned toward the window and asked, "Are the

stars shining? That is where I will be taken. I would

so much like to be with the prophets, the apostles, and

the martyrs, but probably I will first be with the little

children. I have only one wish, that Christ himself

may come to fetch me. He is always close to me now.

Sometimes I would like to ask God to let me go to sleep,

dreaming and without the pains of death, and wake up

in eternity. But that would be presumptuous."

In the midst of the worst pain and torment she could

cry out, "It is so wonderful; I am so happy, and here in

the church it is so wonderful. The life of brotherhood is

something wonderful. How I rejoice in the building up.

A great time is coming this year, but it will come through

struggle and strife. When things are difficult, you must

hold to the faith. Always remember that God is the

victor in the end. Life is a struggle. In dying this struggle

becomes strongest. In life people often don't notice this

struggle at all, and so they don't take it seriously."

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Another time she told our children: "I am thinking

about the ship on which your father Eberhard traveled

to America. He wrote then, 'Let us pray that it will be a

good landing in God's own land.' And here is the Rhön,

the land where our Bruderhof is. Here I will embark to

travel to another land, to the most beautiful land there

is. I see a long procession full of light. There they are, all

of them, and they call to me, 'Come with us!' But Christ

is not in front of them or behind them; he is with me. I

have fought a great fight."

Once when Else was look­ing out of the window

with wide-open eyes, some­one asked her, "Do you see

anyone?" She answered, "No. But I must be on the watch

to see when it is com­ing. Over and over I experience the

words from Revelation: The Spirit and the Bride say,

'Come!'"

Often she would gaze into the distance and say several

times, quite softly, "Lord, come soon! It is so beautiful to

see the day dawning. What will it be like, then, when the

eternal morning dawns?"

In the night she sometimes awoke, opened her eyes

wide and put her hands together in prayer. Once she

said, "I feel as though I were standing between time and

eternity, as though I were connecting you with eternity.

I need Jesus more than ever, if only he would come soon

to get me. When I have to depart, do not part from me!

Now sing and be joyful."

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In her last days she recalled having seen a remark­able

vision of light. On the earth below she saw a great smoky

fire, which was not clear or bright, and she felt an

oppressive fear that this fire would destroy everything.

But suddenly in the middle of this dark-red, smoky fire

a tiny, pure white flame sprang up, and this pure flame

gave her comfort. Then she watched this small flame

spread further and further, and from heaven above

came a great, pure, bright flame of light, which united

with the small white flame. And straight away, a great

city was built out of this pure light. The smoky, sooty fire

receded more and more. In the end, the city of light was

so bright that the walls of the city were no longer visible.

It had become all sun – one single, great, completely

white and pure light. Such was her faith in the church

that shines out, and the coming down of the Spirit upon

the church to build the city on the hill.

Yes, the last months of Else's life challenged all of us like nothing we had experienced before. Often it seemed she had already left us, only to come back again. One time, on awakening from a deep sleep, she said, "The life there is so much more alive than here!" When we asked her what she wished for most of all, she said only, "To have more love!" Not for more days on

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earth or for relief from her suffering – all she desired was a greater love for others.

On January 11, 1932, after enduring one last long, difficult night, she drew her final breath. Gathering

around her bed we could only sing, "Now thank we all our God!" Else had conquered.

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Before the Storm

Life went on, for we felt Else would not have wanted us to hold up anything because of her. She had even asked us not to let her death interfere with plans for the upcoming weddings of Fritz Kleiner and Martha Braun, Arno Martin and Ruth von Hollander (my sister Olga's adopted daughter). These we celebrated on January 24.

In March, Eberhard and Adolf Braun attended a conference of religious socialists in Bad Boll, Württemberg. This was the place where Johann Christoph Blumhardt and his son, Christoph Fried­rich Blumhardt, had worked for over seventy years. Eberhard shared his impressions of the trip in a meeting after he returned, on April 3, 1932:

The son, Christoph Friedrich, is still remembered vividly

today, and a few still remember the father, Johann

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Christoph. We were glad to find that this memory is a

living force today.

Johann Christoph Blumhardt came from the mission

school in Basel and from traditional pietist circles into a

parish rife with unbelief and superstition. He had a great

love for the people and faithfully visited them in their

homes, concerning himself with each one personally.

Yet thanks to his background he had a broad view of the

whole world.

His vision became even broader when he came into

tremendous conflict with unbelief. He saw clearly that,

if Jesus won victories in his parish, they must have

significance for more than Möttlingen and its little

congregation alone. In the freeing of Gottliebin Dittus,

a possessed woman, forces of darkness were conquered;

now, Blumhardt felt, he must go on to fight for the

kingdom of God in every corner of the world, so that

light might conquer the darkness…

Among the pietists of Württemberg a strong and deep

direction had developed that contrasted sharply with

the more superficial evangelical movement. Thanks

to the influence of eight-eenth-century theologians,

pietism in those days was not nearly so subjective as

the pietism of today. But it was soon clear to Blumhardt

that he had to take an even broader view. People were

healed, devils were driven out, and emotional illnesses

were cured. Blumhardt's convictions differed from

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popular church teachings so much that eventually he

had to leave Möttlingen.

Thus Blumhardt came to Bad Boll with his wife and

children. He also brought along Gottliebin Dittus,

her sister and two brothers, and a certain Theodore

Brodersen, who later married Gottliebin. Little by little

a small community of fifty people, including children,

was formed, living and working together.

Friends told us that both father Blumhardt and his

son were modest, almost secretive, about their practice

of asking for healing through the laying on of hands.

They would have nothing to do with any kind of magic

or sorcery. Just as the outward symbol of baptism

achieves nothing unless the new birth has already taken

place in the heart, so it is, they felt, with the healing of

sickness. Not even the least psychosomatic influences

should be tolerated…the last thing they wanted was the

establishment of a prayer-healing institution.

Johann Christoph Blumhardt had several sons,

and two were especially outstanding: Christoph and

Theophil. People assumed that Theophil would be his

father's successor, but in the end it was Christoph who

took over his father's work…

Gradually Christoph broke away from the organized

church, from pietism, and from the language of his

father…He sought to discern the places in the world

where God wanted to reveal his kingdom of justice,

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his victory over evil spirits, and felt that "nothing can

be expected from pious people." And so he looked

among the common folk – the peasants and factory

workers – to find signs of Jesus' victory.

Though he dabbled in politics as a Social Democrat,

he was not a politician in the ordinary sense. He was

for a time loyal to this party, but the future kingdom

of justice and its foreshadowing among the struggles

of the working classes excited him far more. There is

no question but that he saw God's kingdom as the real

answer, the real help…

I do not think he would be very pleased that his

sermons and devotions are published and read as

widely as they are, and that so many people still flock

to Bad Boll. It made him unhappy whenever people

tried to imitate him, and he warned them repeatedly

neither to overestimate the place, nor his work, nor

his own person. Sadly, his warning seems to have gone

unheeded. Yet the true significance of his work as I see it

has never been truly recognized…

As none of Christoph Blum­hardt's sons became

his successor, the Moravian Brethren took over the

administration of Bad Boll [after his death in 1919],

and the present housefather is endeavoring to continue

faithfully in his spirit.

We heard testimonies from several who knew the son

Blum­hardt. One, a widow whose husband (a gardener

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at Bad Boll) had died in an accident, was taken in by the

Blumhardts. Later they bought her a boarding house in

Freudenstadt…This woman told me a great deal. She

was also very glad to hear of our life and she said it

reminded her of the witness of Blumhardt.

I also met a man who discovered the theory of

relativity before Einstein. The son of a university

professor, he was extremely depressive in his youth, and

haunted by demons in a frightful way, to the point that

he was suicidal. His depressions alternated with periods

of exuberance, during which he felt like a demigod, and

in the intervals between these two states, he produced

his scientific work.

After living for years in this unbear­able way, this

man came to Bad Boll, where he encountered Jesus and

found freedom from his suffering. I saw him myself – he

is an old man, now, a doctor of philosophy. He is not so

completely healed that you don't notice anything at all,

but he is able to work without sedatives. And he is aglow

with fire: he read me his entire story, ten closely-written

pages, and confided in me as in a father confessor…

Though Christoph Blumhardt distanced himself

more and more from the organized church, he did not

experience the true unity of a communal church in his

own circle, except in rare instances. It was glimpsed,

but never attained…All the same, as Leonhard Ragaz

points out, Blumhardt was a man who did not live in

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his own power and authority. It was the fire of Jesus

that radiated from him. Here was a man who expected

God to intervene in all of life's problems and in every

historical event; a man who had the great vision of God's

kingdom and yet took pains for, and stood up for, every

individual.

Spring came soon after Eberhard's return from his visit to Bad Boll and with it a renewed effort to build up as much as we could. Guests, especially young ones, continued to come. Annemarie Wächter, who had visited us the previous summer, came to stay on the day of Else's death. Students from Tübingen who had heard about us through our son Hardy (who was studying there) came too, among them Susi Gravenhorst (later Fros) and Edith Boecker (who later married Hardy). There were also Gerhard Wiegand, Ria Kiefer (who read about us in the Deutsche Sonntagspost), Marie Eckardt (an elderly deaconess), Hildegard Friedrich (and her mother Elsbeth), August Dyroff, and Josef Stängl, all of whom stayed.

Our guests and new members came from the most varied backgrounds. There were Catholics and Protestants and religious youth from every other persuasion, homeless people, and politically conscious people from both the left and the right. As usual, they

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brought countless ideas and questions – issues we thrashed out with them under the great beech tree at the end of the day.

Sometimes we had quiet gatherings and at other

times the most heated discussions. But no matter the tone, we tried to let ourselves be guided by a spirit of constructive common searching. Thankfully, something of Christ and his church would always break through and shed its light on our meeting sooner or later, and when this happened, everything was able to find its proper perspective.

A Joyful Pilgrimage Conflict with Hitler's State

Conflict with Hitler's State

By the summer of 1932, the spirit of Nazism was thriving among many in Germany: "It can't go on like this! It is time to put national interest above selfinterest! We need a strong leader!" All this sounded fine, but those who saw deeper realized – on account of Hitler's own ominous pronouncements – how dangerous a leader he might be. And yet, was the steadily growing power of the Bolsheviks any better? We could only hope that both threats, National Socialism and Bolshevism, would pass.

It was through a phone call from our son Heinrich, who was studying at an agricultural school in Fulda, that we first heard the news: Hitler had been appointed Chancellor of the German Reich, and had already taken office. The news came as a surprise to almost everyone, but to those who had a presentiment of what lay ahead, it was an especially great shock.

When new decrees and legislative changes were posted each day, we knew we could expect nothing

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good. Gleichschaltung (the Nazi policy of forced conformity, or "equalization") and the persecution of the Jews were among the first things we heard about. Schools, monasteries, and communities were closed

down because they did not want to be "equalized." Germans were expected to greet each other with the salute, "Heil Hitler," and most people complied, assuming that there was no other way. What a pitiful sight it was to see an old lady like our Grandmother Arnold salute someone in this manner! Yet we could understand why people were afraid to say what they really thought about such matters. Anyone who did was labeled a "traitor to the people and enemy of the fatherland."

Every problem, every evil, was blamed on the Jews. At the entrances to many villages, signs were put up saying, "No admittance for dogs and Jews." Soon Germans were no longer allowed to buy in Jewish shops. In some places, for example in Kassel, an area was enclosed with barbed-wire fencing, and anyone caught buying at a Jewish business was denounced and locked inside. Suddenly, the new "science" of race determined everything, and anyone who claimed "Nordic" or "Germanic" ancestry had to prove his "Aryan" bloodline. "Mixed" marriages between Gentiles and Jews were forbidden, and those that already existed were annulled, which caused untold suffering.

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Many Jews tried to emigrate to other countries, but it was far from simple – indeed, often impossible – to obtain the necessary papers.

Soon columns of Storm Troopers, Black Shirts, and

Hitler Youth were parading through even the smallest towns and villages. Their marching songs, especially Die Fahne hoch! (Raise high the flag!), were sung everywhere with great enthusiasm. Such aggressive groups came marching through our Rhön Bruder­hof too, but they soon realized that we were not willing to participate in their activities. In many a members' meeting we discussed the question: to what extent should we give an opposing witness? We wanted to act openly at all times. We would not be "equalized," that is, accept all the new decrees, and we could not say "Heil Hitler," since we did not believe that Heil (salvation) came from him! Naturally this often got us into trouble on the street or in the shops. But how could we cooperate? It was no question to us what spirit Hitler served, and we refused to have anything to do with it.

Already in the first months of 1933 we heard about the closing of schools, particularly progressive ones; about dissidents being deported to concentration camps; about the State's growing opposition to the churches, Catholic as well as Protestant. Before long, free speech was effectively forbidden on all fronts,

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and every bit of public information had to pass by the censor. Conditions were ripe for disaster. No one knew what was really happening, and the press was no help. Now and then we might see a cryptic notice like,

"Another Dangerous Communist Nest Discovered!" but beyond that we knew little.

What were we to do? We all felt the same: we must continue to live for the witness entrusted to us and to speak out. "It will depend on who holds out the longest," Eber­hard said. And so we continued to build. In the spring and summer of 1933 we again had many guests, including some who wanted to stay. Our discussions with them, in particular those concerning National Socialism, were intense, and at times it felt as though every word counted. This was especially true toward the end of the year, when the political climate grew even more repressive. We were not surprised that several who had earlier asked to become members left us, as things grew more dangerous; Eber­hard halfjokingly called them our "summer novices." One who did stay was Günther Homann, who worked in our library and archives with great dedication, year after year, until his death.

At Easter 1933 we baptized eighteen new members, most of whom had come the previous year and made clear their intentions to go the way of the cross with us, come what may. Among them were Hans and

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Margrit Meier, Peter and Anni Mathis, Edith Boecker (later Arnold), Susi Gravenhorst (later Fros), Gertrud Loeffler (later Arnold), and two of our children, HansHermann and Monika. Coming as they did in such a

critical time, the baptisms of these new brothers and sisters gave us fresh courage and strength for the way we all had chosen.

In June, despite objections from her parents, we went ahead with the wedding of Marianne Hilbert, a teacher in our school, and Kurt Zimmermann. Tensions with the families of people who came to join us were not unusual, of course, but as Nazism took over the country, the battle lines were drawn more clearly, even among relatives. It had to be all or nothing.

Earlier, after Edith Boecker had joined us, she had been pressured by her parents to come home to Hamburg, at least to say good-bye. Once she arrived, they attempted to talk her out of returning to our community, and when this did not work, they took her travel money and locked her in a second-story bedroom. In the end, Edith escaped: she made a rope with her sheets, let herself down from the window, and made her way back to the Rhön Bruder­hof.

Relations with local government authorities were not much better, and Eber­hard visited them frequently to clarify our position – namely, that discipleship of

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Christ, as we understood it, could not be compromised with the demands of National Socialism.

In October, in an effort to lend legitimacy to his government, Hitler ordered a nationwide plebiscite. On

October 27 Eber­hard went to the authorities in Fulda to explain our attitude to the upcoming plebiscite. An official there told him, "If you don't vote 'yes,' Dr. Arnold, there is only one thing left: concentration camp." Eber­hard returned home by taxi. As usual, he walked the last stretch, taking a shortcut over the brow of the hill; this time, however, he slipped on the rainwet grass, fell, and broke his left leg. Luckily Alfred had gone out to meet him with a lantern, but he was unable to help him to his feet. Running back to the house, he fetched Moni, who came back with him, took one look at the leg, and diagnosed a compound fracture. They had to carry him home on a stretcher.

Eber­hard was in great pain, and it was clear the leg had to be operated on as soon as possible, so the next day we drove him back to Fulda, where he underwent surgery. Once back home he was confined to his bed for several weeks.

The plebiscite, which took place on November 12, was not a free election in any sense, but a closely watched show of force. Every person of voting age was compelled to go to the polls, and the authorities made a point of informing us of this. What should we do?

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After much soul-searching, we decided to go. Rather than refuse to participate – rather than simply say "no" to government, like anarchists – we would use the occasion as an opportunity to witness to our beliefs

in a positive way.

Eber­hard formulated a short statement declaring that insofar as government was instituted by God, we respected it, but added that our mission was a different one: our task was to live according to the way of Christ, as a corrective to the rest of the world. After discussing this statement in a members' meeting and agreeing to use it, each of us copied it on a piece of gummed paper. Then we went down to Veitsteinbach, the village in whose district we belonged, stuck our statements to our voting slips, and returned home. How surprised we were the next day, when the newspaper reported Hitler's politics had been affirmed at the ballots with a unanimous "yes"!

Four days later, on November 16, our Bruder­hof was the target of a surprise raid by the SS, SA, and Gestapo (secret police). About 140 men surrounded the Bruder­hof, and no one was permitted to leave his or her room or place of work. Uniformed men stood at every door, and others pushed their way into apartments and searched every room. Books and letters seemed to be of special interest to our visitors, and even personal letters of

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engaged and married couples were read and ridiculed. Documents from abroad – for example letters from Hardy, who was studying in England under the sponsorship of a Quaker friend – received extra

attention.

The secret police searched longest, of course, in our archives, our library, and Eber­hard's study, where they expected to find writings and records that proved our "hostility to the state." While the men pushed their way in and out of our rooms, overturning this, and opening that, Eber­hard lay on the sofa with his newly operated leg. They probably would have liked to take him away then and there, and throw him in a concentration camp. But what could they do with this sick man? Late that evening a big car drove off loaded with books, writings, and records. What would happen next?

From that day on we were watched even more closely. First, the school superintendent of the district of Kassel, who had formerly been friendly enough, came to administer a test; he wanted to see if our children were receiving sufficient "patriotic" instruction. Ordered to sing the Horst Wessel song, "Raise high the flag," and other well-known nationalistic anthems, they stood open-mouthed, uncomprehending – and failed the test. Then our school was closed (the obvious consequence of the failed inspection), and we were faced with the prospect of having to send our children

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to a public school in the neighboring village, or hiring a Nazi teacher. On top of this we were informed that any children and young adults whose parents did not live with us would be taken away.

Naturally we had to act fast, so act we did: we decided to whisk all the children we could out of the country. Neighboring Switzerland seemed the best choice for a destination, so we began to work at obtaining a passport and travel permit for each child.

Unfortunately, not all of our children's legal guardians (most of those we had taken in had relatives elsewhere) were willing to help; either they opposed our plan, or supported it but were fearful of getting into trouble. Thus some of the children had to leave us, which we found very hard. Thankfully, several were allowed to stay, and in early January 1934 they traveled with Lene Schulz, Annemarie Wächter, and the rest of the children to Switzerland, to a home run by a certain Anna Schmidt.

As for our older children and young adults, it was becoming all but impossible to send them out for schooling. Some broke off their studies, and others who had looked forward to starting were forced to put their plans aside. In many cases, further education now depended on membership in the Nazi youth movement, the Hitler Jugend, or the Bund deutscher Mädchen, its

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equivalent for girls. "The future belongs to the youth!" was the slogan.

Other troubles arose too. Visitors who were not members were generally forbidden to stay overnight; if

they wanted to stay, we could accept them only if they made a commitment of "membership" for a minimum of six months. Such restrictions were very difficult both for us and our guests, for how were we (or they) supposed to know beforehand who desired to make such a commitment?

Besides all this, our financial situation also grew worse. First, we were told that the twenty-year mortgage on our house (15,000 marks) had to be paid back within two weeks. Second, we were advised that we could no longer sell our turnery, books, or other publications. Third, we were informed that the state subsidies we had been receiving for our school, as well as all support for the orphans we had taken in, would be immediately stopped. Garden produce could have brought in money, if we had had enough to sell; as it was, we needed everything we brought in from the farm for our own household, which now numbered about 180.

With so much weighing on us, we were all the more encouraged by each new addition to our circle – and especially every new baby born to our families. In May 1932, with the birth of Hans and

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Emy-Margret's daughter Heidi, Eber­hard and I had become grandparents; and on December 20, 1933, our wedding anniversary, they welcomed a second child, Hans-Benedikt.

By the early spring of 1934, the home in Switzerland that had taken in our children was asking us to take them back. Eber­hard and I were sent to look for a place. Eber­hard still had his leg in a walking cast. I saw little hope for a quick recovery, given his continual use of it on our frequent travels. We went first to Liechtenstein, the tiny principality nestled between Switzerland and Austria, and stayed at a village inn in the valley, hoping to get acquainted with the local people. We did not mention our difficulties with the Nazis, but we did say we were looking for a home for children in the vicinity.

While engrossed in conversation at this inn, we overheard someone mention Kurhaus Silum, a summer hotel high on the mountain above the village. Eber­hard and I wasted no time in finding the owner. The hotel had stood empty all winter, and the roads and paths were totally covered by snow. It was early March, and we were advised to wait until at least some of the snow had melted. But we could not wait, since the director of the children's home in Switzerland needed the room

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urgently for a group who had applied previously, and our children had to move out. A friendly farmer from Triesenberg offered to give us a ride up to the hotel in his sleigh, and we asked Adolf Braun, who happened to

be in the area on a book-selling trip, to join us.

It was a dangerous trip, for it was very steep and we had to go through deep snow without being able to see the road. On the way our driver told us how many vehicles had already come to grief there! But he was confident he would be able to find the way. And so we traveled up this treacherous mountainside, not without some anxiety, yet knowing we had to find a place for our children. Our driver could not take us all the way to the door of the hotel, so Eber­hard had to walk, pulling his cast along behind him through the deep snowdrifts as best he could. At our arrival, we met the owner and went through the house with him. Not everything was perfect, especially the heating. Yet on the whole it was a splendid place, surrounded by the high, snow-covered Alps. A few minutes' walk higher up there was a Swiss cottage, which we could rent in addition to the hotel, and several mountain huts too. Altogether it seemed there would be room for at least a hundred people.

The trip back down the mountain was as hair-raising as the one up had been, for our tracks had almost disappeared under the wind-blown snow. Before we set out, however, we shook hands with the owner

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on the agreement that we would move in as soon as possible. He named the annual rent and asked for an advance sum of half this amount as down payment. For us, who had no money, it was a dizzying sum – about

1,500 francs – and we would have to find it quickly. That night I dreamt we had all tumbled down the mountain.

The next morning Eber­hard and I traveled to Chur, where we wanted to visit friends. Because of his bad leg, Eber­hard did not go everywhere with me, but stayed in our room. Meanwhile I decided to go to visit Julia Lerchy, a guest at the Rhön Bruder­hof the previous summer who was currently hospitalized.

Julia had back trouble and had to lie flat on her back, yet she was very lively and interested in everything I had to tell her. She was shocked to hear of all that had happened to us since she had left in August 1933, but impressed that in spite of all the difficulties, we had gone on building as if we were to live there forever. Julia reminded me of how our enlargements to the dining room the previous summer had meant that Hardy's engagement to Edith Boecker was celebrated in the attic, and we remembered a saying of Martin Luther's: "If I knew that the world were to end tomorrow, I would still plant my apple tree today."

When I took leave of Julia, she asked me to come back in the afternoon with Eber­hard. This we did, and during

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the course of our talk, she told us that she had decided to join the Bruder­hof. When we said good-bye, she pressed an envelope into our hands. On opening it outside, we found – to our great joy and gratitude to God –

6,500 francs. Just at this moment, our needs were answered in a way we would have least expected it! Now we could pay the first installment of the rent on our new home in Liechtenstein; we could move the children, buy fuel and food for them, and there would still be more than enough to send on to the hardpressed Rhön Bruder­hof! How ashamed I was of my lack of faith, which had showed itself in my bad dream the night before!

While Eber­hard and I went on to visit others in Switzerland, mostly old friends from the religious socialist movement, Adolf helped move the children's group and the sisters with them to the Alm Bruder­hof, as we named our new alpine home. It was on this trip that we also visited the Essertines for the first time and met Madame Rossier, the wife of the founder.

At the Essertine community, though we felt the spirit of true brotherhood, we became aware of two important differences between them and us. The first one was celibacy: they believed marriage was a distraction from the all-important task of living for the kingdom, and even couples who were already married did not live together. The second was violence. Whereas we rejected

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the use of force without exception, they said that in a defensive war, a call to arms was justifiable, and they would not refuse it. What impressed us most was the Essertine attitude to communal work. During lively

discussions of an inner nature, they worked weaving baskets, braiding onions, and doing other simple jobs. At the end of our visit, Madame Rossier gave us money and food for our new community.

Before traveling back to Liechtenstein, we went to Peter Mathis's mother, "Nona," who had taken care of our Hans-Hermann during the winter, when he had tuberculosis. He had progressed so well that we could take him with us.

At the new Alm Bruder­hof we spent several days with the small but growing circle. New people were coming over the German border almost every day, a few at a time, and we rejoiced with each new arrival. What a wonderful reunion it was – to finally have our children safe from the clutches of the Nazis!

Soon whole families were sent from the Rhön Bruder­hof to help, among them the Kleiners and Zimmermanns. Hardy came from England to continue his studies in Zurich, and with him came several people he had met who wanted to try living with us on the basis of the Sermon on the Mount: Arnold and Gladys Mason (a young married couple), Kathleen

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Hamilton (later Hasenberg), and Winifred Bridgwater (later Dyroff).

It was a very moving time – we had never had guests from England who wanted to join us – and we had one

deep-going talk after another with these four. Most of us had more or less forgotten our school English, but Hardy was a good interpreter, and we got on well in spite of the language barrier. Especially memorable for me was our new friends' enthu­si­asm in turning in their belongings and valuables, which included the Masons' diamond engagement rings.

In August 1934, Hardy and Edith, who had met as students at Tübingen, were married at the Alm Bruder­hof. For the wedding ceremony, Eber­hard chose "Christ as Head" as his theme, and this message spoke powerfully to all of us. After the wedding, Eber­hard and I did not stay long in Liechtenstein, but returned to the Rhön Bru­der­hof, where we spent the winter of 1934–1935. Hitler's government was growing more repressive by the week, yet we strongly felt we belonged with those who had stayed where the danger was greatest.

On December 20, 1934, we celebrated our silver wedding. A garland of silver thistles hung in the middle of the dining room, adorned with twenty-five tall white

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candles, and throughout the day we were shown much love by everyone in the community. Eber­hard presented me with a little book he had put together as a gift for me, inscribed "your bridegroom." Little did we

know that this would be our last anniversary together.

About this time, Heinrich called us from the Alm Bruder­hof, asking our permission to become engaged to Annemarie Wächter. What joy there was that Christmas: Heinrich's engagement, our twenty-fifth anniversary (and my fiftieth birthday as well), and on top of all this, the fact that our children were safely gathered beyond German borders! How grateful we were that God still allowed us such undeserved blessings in a time that held so much darkness and suffering for many!

The new year had barely begun when we were confronted with new questions about the future of our work in Germany. Most significant of these was the issue of Germany's mobilization, and our fears that sooner or later our brothers would be called up for military service.

We did not have to wait long: on March 16, 1935, Hans Meier, who was traveling in Switzerland, called the Rhön Bruder­hof to inform us that the German draft had been reinstated. Within hours, we were

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able to confirm Hans's news via a source in Fulda: Hitler had ordered mandatory universal conscription, effective immediately. It would only be a matter of days before the first age group would have to

register.

That same evening we had a long members' meeting to decide what we should do. Had the hour finally come for us to suffer for our resistance? Or was our task to continue building up a life of community – at the Alm Bruder­hof, for instance, where the men were needed for the work? If I remember rightly, there were seventeen young men in our circle who were eligible for the draft, some of them novices, and some of them full members with wives and small children. After a time of silence, and then a prayer in which we asked God for his guidance, we decided to send these men off that same night to the Alm Bruder­hof. Money for train tickets was limited, but by midnight they were all gone, traveling by several different routes, and by different means: some by rail, some by bicycle, and some on foot.

The next morning it was eerily quiet. School children we had not had since the previous year, but now there were no young men left – at least no German ones – either. But our loss was the Alm Bruder­hof's gain, and before long we began to hear of their arrival,

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one by one, at the other end. Soon we were rejoicing that all had made it across the border.

At the end of March, we decided to rent a cheap bus so that the young mothers at the Rhön Bruderhof who

had been separated from their husbands could rejoin them in Liechtenstein. In addition to these mothers and their babies, there were toddlers and threeand four-year-olds, so several others of us went along to care for them.

It was quite an undertaking. The bus, which had hardly any springs, bumped and bounced along all day, and the children, none of them used to traveling, were not easy to pacify. We left early in the morning but had to stop often, and by the time we got to the border it was almost midnight. When we arrived at the crossing, we were refused entry. What a blow! After numerous telephone calls and animated discussions, however, we were finally allowed through.

Happy as we were with the new community in Liechtenstein, we continued to look for a better place to build up outside Germany. For one thing, Silum did not belong to us – we had only rented it – and in any case the land around the house was unsuitable for expansion, for the terrain was extremely steep. As for the Rhön Bruder­hof, who knew how much longer our stand against Hitler's racist nationalism would be tolerated?

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In spring 1935, the community asked Eber­hard to travel to Holland and England to look for a new place and to raise funds for the Alm Bruder­hof. Because his leg had still not healed, Hardy, who had made many

friends and acquaintances in England during his year of studies there, accompanied him.

In Holland, both Eber­hard and Hardy were impressed by the warmth that met them among the people they visited. In England, though their reception was equally heartfelt, Eber­hard suffered from considerable strain: partly because of his leg (they had little money, and he often had to walk considerable distances), and partly because so many of the people he met lacked an under­standing for the urgency of his pleas for help. Many seemed downright oblivious to developments in Germany.

On Eber­hard's return to the continent from England, he traveled first to the Rhön Bruder­hof to spend a few days there, but then came on to Liechtenstein. After much persistent begging, he had moved Quaker friends in London to make a donation for a greenhouse (a must for raising vegetables at 5,000 feet, even in summer), and now the little community was finally able to grow more of its food on its own. With the money left over after the purchase of this necessity, we decided to rent a piece of land in the Rhine Valley for further gardening.

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Though the soil in our new plot was fertile, the walk down to the river 1,000 meters below us, and back up to the Bruder­hof again, was extremely strenuous. Luckily humor often carried the day. I still remember Fritz

Kleiner's retort when someone teased him for cutting directly down the steep slope to avoid the endless road with its tortuous twists and turns: "Surely you're not planning to go right down the mountainside, Fritz!" To which he replied, "Well, I don't want to go the way the whole world goes."

After a short visit back to the Rhön Bruder­hof for the Whitsun holidays, Eber­hard returned to the Alm to find the brotherhood simmering with internal struggles. At stake was the old problem of Hutterianism, in specific the tensions between those who favored the rigidity of its orders and offices and services, and those who longed for the free development of a church led solely by the Spirit. It was an issue that had cropped up before, but at the Alm Bruder­hof it had come to the point where some wanted nothing but the old Hutterian teachings, while others wanted only what they felt the Spirit was saying and speaking.

Some, like myself, stood between the two extremes. Conscious of the need for at least some sort of structure to guide a group of weak human beings, I appreciated the order Hutterianism had brought to our life. At the same time I could not accept the thought of a

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community that did not have room for the Spirit, which had come to us in such a living way again and again over the years. I felt like Eber­hard, who had said in a meeting at the time, "If we insist on reading nothing

but the old Hutterian teachings" – precious as these were to him – "and force people to accept them, I will have no part in it!"

Yes, we had to fight moralism and legalism over and over; and yet the Spirit still visited us, bringing us new joys and new strength. Two especially happy events that I remember from this time were the wedding of Christian Loeber and Sophie Schwing (the last couple to be married by Eber­hard) and the arrival of Hermann Arnold. A nephew of Eber­hard, Hermann was so deeply affected by the power of conversion that he resigned from Hitler's SA (Brown Shirts) for reasons of conscience, mailed them his uniform, and joined the Alm Bruder­hof. Hermann's father (Eber­hard's brother Hermann) had died in World War I, leaving behind a young family. His mother, Käthe, joined us some years later and taught in our school for many years, until her death in 1956.

Just during those difficult weeks of inner struggle in the summer of 1935, Hardy's wife Edith gave birth to her first child, Eber­hard Klaus. Three days later she

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lay close to death, battling childbed fever and a serious infection. Edith's life hung in the balance, and at times it looked as if it would be extinguished. Day after day, and then week after week, brothers and sisters gathered

at the mountain hut where she was being cared for to pray for her.

Edith's baby, not knowing what was happening around him, looked on with innocent eyes. But for the rest of us there was a vital parallel to be drawn between her physical struggle against the powers of illness, and the equally mortal battle of the Alm Bruder­hof as a whole as it fought for renewal. Thankfully, the power of life which eventually triumphed in Edith was also victorious over the deadening legalism that threatened our community. That freedom, which the apostle Paul describes so wonderfully in Romans 8, must be sought over and over again. And in every year to come, the fight to win it anew would continue.

A Joyful Pilgrimage Eberhard's Last Struggle

Eber­hard's Last Struggle

After celebrating Eber­hard's fifty-second birthday on July 26, 1935 at the Alm Bruder­hof, he and I returned to Germany. For our farewell, the young men and women performed a play they had been rehearsing based on Tolstoy's story, "Where love is, God is."

In the evenings before our departure, Eber­hard spent hours looking at the stars through a telescope. Throughout our years together we had often discussed the endless space of the star world and the universe – in comparison to our tiny planet – but in those days toward the end of summer 1935, Eber­hard seemed unusually engrossed by this theme. It was not merely scientific or astronomical interest, but a sense of wonder at the greatness of God's creation that stirred us. I especially remember the enthusiasm with which he once showed me Saturn, the planet surrounded by rings of light. Another time we were talking about where loved ones who had gone before us were, and I

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wondered if Eber­hard thought that perhaps he would soon be with them, on one of these stars.

In addition to the star world, the visions of the great prophets, Daniel and Ezekiel (but also of John),

consumed us in those days. We felt that there was a close connection between our task as a community in this historical hour, and its significance in the greater scheme of things.

Again and again, Eber­hard reminded us of God's great future. It saddened him deeply that we were often too small-minded, too mean and miserable, to see our life in a larger context. It was not that anything "bad" had happened; yet he was distressed by the petty emotionalism into which our brotherhood life so often seemed to sink. Where was our sensitivity, our ear for God's voice? One way Eber­hard tried to combat the problem was through trying to open our eyes to a broader horizon, for instance, by holding talks on the martyrs of earlier centuries, or leading discussions on the current political situation, especially in Nazi Germany. For the most part, people listened, but they were not inwardly receptive.

Eberhard and I made further journeys back and forth between the Bruder­hofs that fall, and they were not without danger. People were being stopped, arrested, and dragged off to concentration camps almost daily. Every time we left a community, we did so knowing

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that we might not reach our planned destination. On top of this Eber­hard's leg still caused him considerable pain. In spite of the cast, it was quite crooked, and walking was very difficult for him.

In mid-October 1935, Eber­hard and I were both at the Rhön Bruder­hof, where we found the same sleepy emotionalism that we had fought so hard with the circle at the Alm. On the surface, things looked fine: the community was functioning, people were working hard, and brothers and sisters generally got on well with each other. But underneath there was little, if any, of the earlier fire that had brought us all together. Instead there were undercurrents of discontent, gossip, frictions over the smallest practical matters, and – what Eber­hard abhorred most – a deadening religious complacency. And all this at a critical hour when we were facing serious external threats because of our communal witness! We were reminded of the time Jesus had found his three most beloved disciples asleep.

The ensuing struggle for inner renewal soon developed into a full-blown crisis, and in the end it was clear to all of us that things could not go on any longer as they had. By the agreement of all, we dissolved our brotherhood. We continued to gather for worship

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meetings, but they were held in silence, and each one used the time to repent – to examine his or her heart and seek anew the spirit of unity and love. It was an hour of bitter earnestness.

To encourage and help us as we fought for a reawakening, the Alm Bruder­hof sent Georg and Monika, and Fritz and Martha. They arrived on November 12. Eber­hard was only able to see them shortly, as he had to travel to Darmstadt the same day, Dr. Paul Zander, a surgeon and friend we had known since 1907, had offered to examine his leg. Fritz and I accompanied him as he limped along to the edge of the woods; from there, a waiting taxi took him to the train. Little did we know that this was his last farewell – that Eber­hard would never see his beloved Bruder­hof again.

Difficult days now followed. Already the next day Dr. Zander informed us that he felt a new operation was unavoidable. Eber­hard's leg had not healed at all; in fact, it could collapse at any moment. Surgery was scheduled for Saturday, November 16, and I traveled there the day before to be with him.

At the Elisabeth Hospital, I found my husband in bed in a third class ward with three other patients. Dressed in a striped hospital gown, he was busily composing a letter to our son-in-law Hans. I asked him whether he would not like to be in a room by himself; after all, his mother had expressly asked for this and sent the

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money for it. He replied that he preferred to be among people.

The week after Eber­hard's surgery was a hard one. The operation had not gone as well as Dr. Zander had

hoped – there were unforeseen complications, and because only local anesthesia was used, Eber­hard was conscious throughout: "They sawed, hacked, and then sewed me up," he told me. He spoke little, and when he did it was not about his pain, but about the ongoing struggle at home.

What was uppermost in his mind was the critical importance of our witness – not to ourselves and our achievements, and not even to community, but to Jesus Christ. His life, his words, his death and resurrection, and the outpouring of his Spirit in Jerusalem, with all that followed, was all that mattered. Again and again in those days Eber­hard spoke of his love for Christ. He said to me, "When you get home, ask each one, 'Why do you love Christ?'"

At times it seemed he was living in another world. After his death, one of the patients who had shared his room told me, "He was always concerned with God, with the world of the stars and the sun." He was also delirious and confused. Once he asked me to "give the girl sitting over there, the confirmation candidate, a good book to read." When I told him that no one was there, he said he had seen a person in a white dress.

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On the Day of Repentance [a Lutheran church holiday], he asked me in a loud voice, "Tell me, have you read anywhere whether Hitler and Goebbels have repented?" I told him I hadn't, and warned him not to

say such a thing so loudly, with other people present. At this, he only grew more excited and called out the same question again, even more loudly: "Does anyone here know whether Hitler and Goebbels have repented?"

In the late afternoon of November 21, Frau Zander appeared, looking downcast, and asking to speak alone with my sister Monika, who had joined us at the hospital a few days earlier. Later I found them both in the nurses' room, weeping, and they told me that Eber­hard's leg could not be saved: it was completely cold and lifeless. I was dreadfully upset, almost beside myself. Would they really have to amputate above the former fracture, as Dr. Zander proposed? Would Eber­hard be able to survive this second operation? Would he learn to walk again? Frau Zander reassured me that his life was not in danger.

Eber­hard had not yet been told about the amputation, so when I went to him, I tried to remain very calm. He asked me to read to him something about the coming Advent. I read the first chapter of the Gospel of John: "And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us; and we saw his glory." That night he wanted to be alone. Before I went he spoke about the brothers and

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sisters back at the Rhön Bruder­hof, and said, "I will think of you for all eternity!"

As Eber­hard was to be sedated very heavily that evening, Monika and I went back to the house where we

were staying, though we first asked the night nurse to call us if Eber­hard should ask for us, and to let us know if anything special occurred. It was a terrible night: it was as if a black wall loomed in front of me, and I could see nothing at all beyond it. Monika and I read and talked the whole night. We told each other over and over what Dr. Zander had said: that Eber­hard's life was not in danger, yet deep down I had the strange feeling that this terrible sacrifice would be demanded.

Very early the next day, November 22, I went to see Eber­hard with Monika. He was still asleep when we came. Around 10:30, Dr. Zander came in, examined Eber­hard, and gently broke the news to him: the leg could not be saved. Eber­hard asked if the operation could not be postponed another twen­ty-four hours, treating the leg with warming pads and hot air. But Dr. Zander replied, "The surgeon must seize the right time to operate; tomorrow might be too late." Eber­hard said, "Then I will submit to it in trust."

Now the fateful operation began, and I sat and waited for it to be over. It was an endless wait: for one

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thing, the operation took longer than anticipated, and worse, the news that came to me through Moni (who was present) did not sound good. How I longed for the presence of our sons – Hardy, Heinrich, and Hans-

Hermann! But they could not possibly risk coming back into Germany; they would have been conscripted immediately, if not imprisoned for evading the draft. Thankfully Emy-Margret and Hans were on the way.

By the time the amputation was completed, Hans and Emy-Margret had arrived, but they were not able to speak with him, for he was still asleep. He never regained consciousness. As we stood around his bed, however, we sensed that he was somehow with us. When we sang – "Thee will I love, my strength, my tower," "Jesus is victorious king," "Yield now, sin and evil deed," and other songs he loved – tears ran down his face.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, he passed away peacefully – his task, his mission finished. It was incomprehensible! We had never dreamt it would happen this way, even though during the last two years I had realized that the time was coming when he would no longer be with us.

Eber­hard's burial was held on November 25 at the Rhön Bruder­hof, and followed by a special meal in his memory. Immediately after this, Emy-Margret, Monika, and I traveled to the Alm Bruder­hof, where

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Hardy, Heinrich, and Hans-Hermann awaited news of their father's last days.

It is impossible to put into words the meaning of Eber­hard's life – either for me as his wife and comrade,

or for the many others who knew and loved him. Two years before he died, however, in a meeting with a group of guests, he had spoken about his life of searching, and it seems fitting to quote here what he said:

I would like to tell about my personal seeking. When

I was much younger, groups of people often gathered

around me, and I tried by means of Bible studies and

talks to lead them to Jesus. But after a while this was

no longer enough…I was deeply unhappy. I recognized

more and more that a personal concern for the salvation

of souls, no matter how dedicated it might be, did not

in itself meet the demands of the life Jesus calls us

to…I began to recognize the needs of people in a deeper

way: the need of their souls and bodies, their material

and social wants, their humiliation, exploitation, and

enslavement. I recognized the tremendous powers of

mammon, discord, hate, and violence, and saw the hard

boot of the oppressor upon the neck of the oppressed.

If a person has not experienced these things, he might

think such words exaggerated – but these are the facts.

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Then, from 1913 to 1917, I sought painfully for a

deeper understanding of the truth…I felt that I was not

fulfilling God's will by approaching people with a purely

personal Christianity…

During those years I went through hard struggles: I

searched in the ancient writings, in Jesus' Sermon on

the Mount and other scriptures, but I also wanted to

acquaint myself with the realities of working class life,

and I sought to share in the lives of the oppressed as

they struggled within the present social order. I wanted

to find a way that corresponded to the way of Jesus

and of Francis of Assisi, not to mention the way of the

prophets.

Shortly before the outbreak of the war I wrote to a

friend saying that I could not go on like this. I had taken

an interest in individuals, preached the gospel, and

endeavored in this way to follow Jesus. But I now longed

to find a way to serve humankind; I wanted to find a life

of dedication that would establish a tangible reality – a

way of life by which men could recognize the cause for

which Jesus died.

The war continued and I saw the condition of men

who came back from the front. I will never forget one

young man, an officer who came home with both legs

shot away. Returning to his fiancée, he hoped to receive

the loving care he so badly needed from her, but she

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informed him that she had become engaged to another

man, a healthy one.

Then hunger came to Berlin. Yes, there were still well-

to-do "Christian" families who had access to nourishing

food and fresh milk, but most people survived on

turnips morning, noon, and night. Carts went through

the streets bearing the bodies of children who had died

of starvation; their bodies were wrapped in newspaper.

Who had money for a coffin? In 1917 I saw a horse

collapse in the street: the driver was knocked aside by

the crowd that instantly gathered around it, and people

rushed to cut chunks of meat from the still-warm body

to bring home to their families.

Once I visited a poor woman in a dark basement

dwelling, where water seeped down the walls. Although

she was tubercular, her relatives were living in the same

room with her. One could hardly keep the window

open; too much dust would have been kicked in by

people walking past in the street above. I offered to find

this woman a different place to live, but she no longer

possessed the will to live: "I'm not going to make a fool

of myself. Leave me here; I'll die here where I have

lived." Inwardly, she was already a corpse.

After such experiences – and those of the

revolutionary times that followed, when the poor traded

places with those they had overthrown and occupied

huge halls with parquet floors – I realized that the whole

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situation was unbearable. How could a Christian remain

silent on the most pressing social issues: war, injustice,

and human suffering?

In the meetings Emmy and I had later had at our

home in Berlin, where we met and discussed all these

things with our friends, we soon came to feel that Jesus'

way must be a practical one: he had shown us a way of

life that was comprised of more than a concern for the

soul. It was a way that simply said, "If you have two

coats, give one to him who has none. Give food to the

hungry, and do not turn away your neighbor when he

needs to borrow from you. When you are asked for an

hour's work, give two. Strive for justice. If you wish to

found a family, see that all others who want to found a

family are able to do so, too. If you wish for education,

work, and satisfying activity, make these possible for

other people as well. If you claim that it is your duty to

care for your health, then accept this duty on behalf of

others too. Treat people in the same way that you would

like to be treated by them. That is the wisdom of the law

and the prophets. Finally, enter through this narrow

gate, for it is the way that leads to the kingdom of God."

When all this became clear to us, we realized that a

person can go this way only when he or she becomes as

poor as a beggar and takes upon himself, as Jesus did,

the burden of every person's need…Only then – when we

hungered for justice more than for water and bread, and

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were persecuted for the sake of this justice – would our

hearts be undivided; only then would our righteousness

exceed that of the moralists and theologians. Then we

would be filled with the Holy Spirit, and with a new

warmth – with the fire that blazes from the vital energy

of God.

It was clear to us that the first Christian community

in Jerusalem was more than a historical happening:

rather, it was here that the Sermon on the Mount came

to life. Therefore we felt we could not endure the life

we were living any longer, but saw that it was more

necessary than ever for us to renounce the last vestiges

of privileges and rights and to let ourselves be won for

the way of total love…

Jesus made the blind see, the lame walk, and the deaf

hear. And he prophesied a kingdom, a rule of God that

will overturn every unjust condition in the present order

of the world, and make it new. To acknowledge this and

to live according to it – this is God's command for the

hour.

A Joyful Pilgrimage The Fight Goes On

The Fight Goes On

The days and weeks that followed Eber­hard's death are difficult to remember and difficult to write about. All were greatly shaken – especially at the Rhön, but also at the Alm Bruder­hof – by his passing, but there were other things we were coping with too. Above all, our struggling brotherhood needed to be restored and newly founded.

Over many years, but in particular during the last difficult ones before Eber­hard's death, guests had warned us that a life like ours would last only as long as its founders were still living. After the first members died, they said, the whole thing would collapse, for without their conviction and enthusiasm, there would be no way to stave off decline. In answer to this we had always said that although such a theory might hold true for a human organization, it could not be so for a community established and guided by the power of the Spirit. Now this had to be proved.

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Certainly, our communal beginning at Sannerz was something we had longed for, but it was never a matter of human charisma or idealism. The Spirit called it into life. Our community came into being out of desperation

and yearning, out of bloodshed and confusion. It arose in an atmosphere in which people had come to the end of all they knew – the loss of house, home, and livelihood, and the bankruptcy of earlier answers and ideals. At that time the question had come from all sides, "What shall we do?" And now, after Eber­hard's sudden death, we had to answer this question again.

At the Rhön Bruder­hof, a hard fight against sin continued to be waged, especially where it had been let in through emotionalism, which is always a disturbance in a community. But there was also disloyalty and cowardice, gossip, cliquish friendships, self-pity, excessive sympathy for some, and insufficient compassion for others. It is still hard for me to understand how these things could have gained so much ground among us in a time when our witness against the spirit of Hitler and his religion of hatred was so sorely needed. And how could it be, that just in this critical hour, Eber­hard, my husband and friend, counselor, and spiritual guide, had left us forever?

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The fight was a call to action and to unity. For myself and my children, who were especially hard-hit, it was a help, for it redirected our thoughts away from our grief and toward others. But who was not especially

affected? What about all the children we had taken in and brought up in our family over the years; and what about the many others, including young men and women for whom Eber­hard had been a father?

The challenge was for everyone. Each individual had to clarify his or her position and address Eber­hard's last question, "Why do you love Christ?" Some did not come through the struggle so easily. As for the rest of us, I am sure a better, more conciliatory way could have been found. I feel this especially for myself: only later did I see that the same sins recognized by others had to be fought in my own heart too.

In spite of all this, and in spite of the immense loss we suffered through Eber­hard's death, we felt as determined as ever to continue building up. At the Rhön Bruder­hof (and everywhere else in Germany), things were getting more difficult all the time. Problems also came up at the Alm Bruder­hof, even though there most of our neighbors were friendly. Then Liechtenstein announced that it was no longer ready to harbor foreigners if other countries – for instance, Germany – claimed them for military service. On top of this, the German passports of several brothers and

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sisters (including Hardy and Heinrich) were expiring and had to be renewed.

Luckily, it was just at this time – spring 1936 – that a solution for many of these troubles came: suitable land

for a community was found in England. The property was named the Cotswold Bruder­hof, and by June, several families had already moved there from the Alm Bruder­hof.

Heinrich and Annemarie, who had married in March, moved to England at the end of their honeymoon, and some time later Hardy and Edith and their little boy followed them.

Traveling was not without dangers and unexpected delays. For example, when Hardy went to the German consulate in Zurich to pick up his passport and refused to return the greeting, "Heil Hitler," the attending official, who had already handed him his papers, insisted on taking them back. Edna Percival (later Jory), a new English member, attempted to get them for him but did not succeed. She was told that the owner of the papers had to receive them in person. Thankfully everything turned out well in the end: Bruder­hof members in England contacted the British Home Office and applied for Hardy and his family be permitted into the country without their papers. The request was approved.

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Others were not so fortunate. Werner Friedemann, a German member who was trying to raise money for the Alm Bruder­hof by selling books in Switzerland, was caught without a police permit, arrested, and jailed.

After several days Werner was released, but could no longer come home to Liechtenstein: in the time since he had left, his age group had been called up.

England was the only safe destination, so with great pains the necessary fare was rustled together. We then took him to the Zurich airport, got him on his plane, and said farewell. Imagine our horror, the next day, when we were informed by phone that he had been denied entrance to England and returned to Zurich. What were we to do? Even outside Germany we were being closely watched, and at that time it often happened that dissenting citizens who had fled the country were forced back over the border, apprehended, and thrown into the concentration camps, never to be heard of again. We knew we had to be both daring and cautious.

In the end, the problem of getting our young Germans to Eng­land was solved by forming a wandering musical troupe, complete with lutes, guitars, fiddles, and flutes, and led by a Swiss member, Hans Meier. Skirting Germany, the group traveled through Switzerland and made their way west toward France without incident. Crossing the Swiss-French border proved to be easy:

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it was late at night, and the sleepy young guard at the customs house glanced briefly at Hans's Swiss passport, nodded, and let the entire troupe through! Later, taking a train north to the English Channel,

there was some worry when the police asked why none of the group's passports contained mention of their entry into France. But their good luck continued, and soon everyone was safely in England.

The story of how the Cotswold Bruder­hof was begun is a remarkable one. As I have told earlier, our English friends had helped us in many ways, especially with their gift of money for a greenhouse at the Alm Bruder­hof. Now, in this time of new anxieties, they offered to take in our members of military age. Unfortunately the offer allowed for no community, but only for individual accommodations in various locations, and we had to decline. Our hearts were set on the continued expansion of our brotherly life, and that was why we had decided to send our young men out of Germany – not to save the skin of this or that individual.

In the end we had no choice but to go looking for a place ourselves. A car was rented, and several brothers went out to look for a suitable farm to rent or buy. They had no money, nor had the government granted us

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permission to stay in England as foreigners! But they set out full of courage and faith that God would show them the way. After looking at a number of possibilities, they found a farm near Ashton Keynes, Wiltshire. The

owner was ready to lease it to us, though he required a large down payment right away.

Meanwhile the number of young men arriving from Germany and Liechtenstein had grown so fast that there was no other alternative but to move in, before so much as a penny had been paid. Naturally the owner of the farm was more than a little astonished to find out about this, and told us, "This is not usually done in Eng­land." Nor in other countries, I think.

Money for the down payment was raised quickly, though not without persistent begging. Heinrich and several other brothers were sent out for this, and they went all over England to relatives, friends, and acquaintances – anyone who might help us. Heinrich even approached people who had never heard of us, telling them our story of persecution in Germany and our flight to England. Amazingly, many donated funds. A furniture company in Bristol even handed over two hundred pounds on Heinrich's word alone, with little further proof. (They also helped us later by giving us beds, which we took to South America when war forced us out of England in 1940.) Others also gave generously.

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While all this was happening in England, we struggled to keep the Alm and Rhön Bruder­hofs afloat. Staffing was short at both communities, money was

continually a problem, and the political situation weighed on us like the air before a storm. During the spring and summer of 1936 especially, we survived on next to nothing, and sometimes it felt that we made it through the day only by a miracle.

All the same, we refused to retreat into our shells. If anything, we felt a renewed urgency to witness publicly to the life of justice and love and brotherhood that had been entrusted to us, and to call others to join us on the way. Eber­hard had admonished us precisely in this regard some months before his death, saying, "When we are no longer able to be there for all people – when we can no longer concern ourselves with the need and suffering of the whole world – our communal life no longer has any right to exist."

In late June 1936, Hans Zumpe and I were sent to attend a Men­nonite peace conference in Amsterdam, Holland, which Eber­hard and I had planned to attend. We were surprised by how few German Mennonites attended the conference, and shocked to learn how quickly they had become in­fluenced by the spi­rit of

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the times. Indeed, from all Ger­many there was only one busload of serious conscientious objectors, and most of the passengers were Am­ericans. (It was at this conference that we first met Orie Miller of the

Mennonite Central Committee. A loyal friend for the rest of his life, he helped us re­s­ettle in Paraguay when we were forced to leave Eng­land during the Second World War.)

After the conference, Hans returned directly to Germany, while I traveled to England to visit the Cot­swold Bruder­hof. (As an indication of how closely we were spied on, it is interesting that though we had taken great pains to keep our British address a secret, a German official in Kassel surprised Hans some weeks later by showing him the location of our new community on a map of England!)

In comparison to the great poverty at the Rhön and Alm Bru­derofs, where even most basic necessities were hard to come by, England seemed rather comfortable to me, though there too (like everywhere else) the establishment of community did not come without struggle. But what enthusiasm there was in building up the new life, and what energy among the young brothers and sisters who made up the circle there! At the end of the summer, I returned once more to Liechtenstein, where I stayed the next several months.

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Shortly before Christmas I made what was to be my last visit to the Rhön. The little circle there was struggling bravely – an island of opposition in a sea of support for Hitler, but the

atmosphere was uncomfortably heavy. Neighbors and local officials watched every coming and going, every move, and the brothers and sisters who lived there grew increasingly suspicious that new troubles were afoot.

On April 14, 1937, we received an unexpected phone call informing us that the Rhön Bruder­hof had been surrounded by the Nazi secret police, the property was to be confiscated, and the entire community had twenty-four hours to leave the country (this was later extended to forty-eight hours on account of a flu epidemic among the children). The reason was clear: our way of life was regarded as a dangerous affront to the power of the state, and we were therefore unerwünscht ("undesired") in Germany. For several years we had reckoned that something like this would happen; even so it was a great shock for us all when it finally came about, and so suddenly.

It was surely a good thing that two Hutterite brothers – David Hofer of James Valley, Manitoba, and Michael Waldner of Bon­homme, South Dakota – hap-

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pened to be at the Rhön Bruder­hof on the day of the raid. They had traveled from North America some months before, arriving at the Cotswold Bruder­hof in February and continuing on to Europe some time

later. Without their presence as foreigners, who knows what might have happened? Since I was not there at the dissolution of the Rhön Bruder­hof, I would like to describe it by quoting from David Hofer's diary; it includes his firsthand impressions of the fateful day.

April 14, 1937

About 10:00 a.m. Michael Waldner and I were in

Eber­hard Arnold's room writing letters, when Hans

Meier opened the door and said, "Brothers, prepare

yourselves, for I have just come from the top of the hill,

where I saw a large number of police in the woods. They

may come to the Bruder­hof, but they cannot do anything

to you." Then he closed the door and went to his office

to tidy up. Thereupon I went to the window and saw

uniformed men hurrying down the hill. I went down to

see what would happen.

There were already twenty-five policemen standing at

the door. "Where is Hans Meier?" one shouted at me. I

answered quite simply, "Doubtless in the house." "Call

him out here!" was the next order. As I went to Hans

Meier's room he met me and then introduced himself

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quite calmly and fearlessly to the police. The chief officer

read Hans Meier the order: "I inform you herewith that

the Rhön Bruder­hof is now dissolved by the state and

must exist no longer. From now on it is to be called

'Sparhof,' and as you are leader of this Bruder­hof, I

demand all books and keys from you. I inform you also

that within twenty-four hours everyone must leave

the place!" Then he went straight to the office with

Hans Meier. The other police surrounded the whole

Bruder­hof and drove all brothers and sisters, young and

old, into the dining room. There they were guarded by

two policemen, and no one was allowed either out or in,

while the others searched every room and took whatever

they wanted. At last they came to our room, where we

were waiting. They ordered us to join the brothers in the

dining room. We went down quite calmly to the brothers

and sisters, and found them perplexed and discouraged.

We encouraged them and told them not to despair.

Then two officials came in. One carried a typewriter,

the other a bundle of papers. They sat down and called

each one by name, and each had to answer what he was

asked and then sign the filled-in form. The form was only

a proclamation regarding registration for assembly – we

examined it carefully before signing. In the meantime,

through the window we saw them searching all the

rooms and carrying all that they wanted to their cars.

When I saw that they were soon getting to our room, I

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wanted to go there. But at the door I was stopped and

told to stay in the dining room. I said, "I want to go to

my room. We are foreigners and do not want our things

searched and carried off." He said he was not allowed

to let anyone out. "If you want to go out, you must get

written permission from our chief officer and bring it to

me." I asked, "Where is he?" He said, "Upstairs in the

office." I went upstairs and applied to the chief officer

(who was occupied with Hans Meier) for leave to go to

my room, which he granted me.

Then I called Michael Waldner and we went to our

room together. Before long, they came and began to

search. We told them that we were foreigners, even of

German extraction, and did not want to have our things

searched. They asked us what we wanted with these

people here, where we were from, and what had brought

us to these people. We told them, "These people are our

brothers in the faith, to whom we have sent much help

from America to build up this Bruder­hof. Therefore we

take a great interest in what is happening here and what

will happen to them." We saw at once that our presence

was no pleasure to them, and that we were in their way.

We asked them to allow us to stay for a few days. They

refused and said that that was no concern of theirs. By

now all the brothers and sisters had signed the forms. It

was 3:00 p.m. by the time they had finished, and only

then were they allowed to have some food. Our food,

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however, had already been brought to us and we had

already eaten.

Meanwhile the police stood outside the dining room

and talked together. I went out to them and talked with

them about what was happening. I told them that what

we had experienced here today was quite uncalled-for,

and that we had not expected such a thing of Germany.

I thought they would have treated their citizens and

peasants better than what we had to see and experience

today. I told them they were worse than the Americans

were. They asked, "How?" I told them that we as

Germans were called up in the last war to do military

service against Germany. We objected and refused to do

it, just as these brothers of ours had done. We asked our

government in America to give us the freedom to leave

the country, as we could not obey it in doing military

service. We asked to be allowed to sell all we had and to

leave nothing behind – all of which was granted. During

the war we were allowed to emigrate to Canada, and this

under government protection so that nothing might

happen to us.

I asked them why they could not treat this

community the same way. They asked, "Why can't you

people show your obedience to the government like

everybody else?" I told them clearly that we respected

the government, but that we could not obey when it

demanded something against our conscience. One of

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them asked me, "To what extent?" I told them that the

Word of God tells me to love my neighbor and not kill

him, and for this reason I could not follow and obey

the government. Then another spoke: "Friend, have

you not read that our Savior said, 'I have not come to

send peace but the sword,' and that he also told his

disciples to buy swords? Why do you not believe these

passages of the scriptures?" I told him how I understood

these passages. He said my interpretation was wrong,

adding, "If the whole world consisted of angels, like

all of you, then there would be no need of war, but

you know that not all men are like that." "We also do

not want war," they insisted. "We only want to make

ourselves strong, because everyone fears the strong. If

we are weak, they will walk all over us. But if we are

strong, they will fear us. That is why we prepare for war,

not because we want to fight."

The others thought the brothers and sisters were

taking too long to eat and asked, "Do they have a whole

ox to devour in there, that they are taking so long about

it?" After the meal they ordered the whole community to

assemble outside the door. Michael Waldner and I were

also ordered to do so, as though they had a proclamation

to read. I soon saw, however, that they only wanted to

take photographs, so I left the group saying to Michael

Waldner, "Come into the house." To them I said, "We

do not need that." Then the order was read that the

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Bruder­hof was now dissolved, that no Bruder­hof existed

anymore in Germany. No one was to take along anything

from the farm or the property of the community, or any

household goods. After reading this out, they all left the

place.

We met for prayer with very troubled and sorrowful

hearts. We told God of our need and distress and

earnestly prayed to him not to forsake us in this difficult

time, but to give us true understanding and wisdom to

act according to his will.

After the prayer we considered our situation, and

how we could bring it about that the community might

remain together. The godless men wanted to scatter the

brothers and sisters all over Germany by sending them

to their relatives. We also desperately wanted to let the

communities in England and Liechtenstein know what

was happening here at the Rhön Bru­der­hof.

So we decided that Arno Martin, the steward of the

Alm Bruder­hof who was just about to return there,

should inform Hans Zumpe and the community in

England as soon as he had crossed the German border.

But how were we to send anyone? The police had robbed

us of all our money – over 400 marks. There was not a

penny in the house. They had been robbed of everything,

including keys and books, and all communal rooms were

locked. So we gave the brothers and sisters our traveling

money, and Hans Meier and I went with Arno Martin to

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Schlüch­tern, arriving at midnight. There we saw him off

with the sad news, which he was to bring to the Cotswold

Bruder­hof and to Liechtenstein.

Hans Meier and I returned to the community with

heavy hearts, and found them all still up. We went to

bed but slept little.

April 15, 1937

Arose once more in good health, for which we give

thanks to God. Also had some breakfast. After breakfast

Hans Meier came in great haste and told us that a

gentleman from Fulda was in the courtyard with his

car, demanding that the board of directors go with him

to Fulda to settle some trifling matters. After that they

would be able to return. This news was an unhappy

surprise for me. I did not believe what the gentleman

from Fulda said. I said to Michael Waldner, "Do you

believe that these brothers will be back by midday, as

he promises?" Michael Waldner said, "I don't know; he

promises it." I said, "We shall see when the time comes."

Hans Meier, Hannes Boller, and Karl Keiderling got

ready and left.

The whole community waited anxiously, but at twelve

o'clock no brothers came. Two o'clock came, and four

o'clock – still the brothers did not come. Then Michael

Waldner and I went up the hill where they would arrive.

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We saw a car coming and recognized it at once as the car

that took the brothers away. A man got out and came to

us. I asked, "Where are the brothers?" "They have not

come," was the answer. Immediately he ordered me to

call the whole community together. First he read us the

order to leave the place within twenty-four hours.

The officers also brought letters from the

three brothers to their wives – Margrit, Else, and

Irmgard – telling them that they had been imprisoned,

but encouraging their wives and children, and all in the

community, to trust in God's leading and leave the next

day as ordered.

At the request of the three brothers in Fulda, the

whole community was to be permitted to leave together,

and the government was willing to let us take our five

brothers of military age with us. So everyone signed a

document saying that they would leave the Bruder­hof

and travel to the other communities. However, as

several brothers and sisters had no passports, and as we

wanted to speak with the brothers in prison regarding

their families, I asked the chief officer for a written note

permitting me to see the brothers in Fulda. He agreed,

and when everything was settled, they left.

We gathered together for prayer and comforted

ourselves with the word of God. I read Psalm 3 as an

encouragement, and thank­ed God that he had so changed

and directed matters that the brothers and sisters could

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join the other communities. We prayed fervently to God

not to forsake us in this great trouble, but to send his

guardian angels to watch over and protect us.

After the prayer, preparations were made for the

journey. We advised the brothers and sisters to get as

much food as they could from the pantry as provision

for the journey. For it was their store of food, and they

should take what they needed.

At five o'clock the next morning, six of our brothers

and sisters left to go to Fulda for passports. I went with

them to visit the brothers in prison. I brought them the

news that at six that eve­ning, the whole community

would leave Germany, with their wives and children.

The brothers were grateful that the community was

caring so faithfully for their families. As well as I could, I

encouraged the imprisoned brothers to be patient – our

gracious God would not forsake them. Then I took leave

of the brothers with a heavy heart and went back to the

office where the others were, to get the passports as

quickly as possible and to arrange for tickets. When it

was settled, we returned home.

We arrived safely at the Bruder­hof at 4:00 p.m. and

found Michael Waldner and all the brothers and sisters

busy packing and preparing for the journey. It was very

hard for the brothers and sisters to leave the results of

the sweat of their brows and depart empty-handed. At

5:00 p.m. we had a bite to eat, and then met again for

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prayer – for the last time at the Rhön Bruder­hof. We

prayed to God to protect his church on this journey,

which we were about to begin. We trusted in his faithful

promise not to forsake us, but through his grace to

accompany us and bring us in peace to his children in

the other communities. God has faithfully helped us all,

so that we have come back to the church in good health.

It had rained all day, especially in the afternoon, and

we were anxious about several sick children and a sick

sister, for we had to go more than a mile over the hills to

the trucks, and they might catch cold on the way. When

the time came, however, and all were ready to leave,

suddenly the sun shone brightly. The rain had stopped

and the sun shone down on us. To us this was a wonder

and grace of God, and we thanked him in our hearts.

Now the brothers and sisters began to climb the hill

with their sick ones, each with a bundle on his or her

back. Michael Waldner carried a child on his back.

I carried a large bundle for Hans Meier's wife, who

had given birth two weeks earlier. We were all laden;

everyone's hands and backs were full. With heavy hearts

we climbed the hill, stopping several times to look back

at the beautiful Rhön Bruder­hof, the beloved home we

had to leave so suddenly and unexpectedly. Some went

to the burial ground to visit the grave of our beloved

Eber­hard Arnold for the last time.

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When we arrived at the appointed place, the cars

were already there. When they were loaded, they set

off for the station. Michael Waldner, Hella Römer [the

Bruder­hof bookkeeper, who had been instructed to stay

until everything was put in order], and I were the only

ones left at the Rhön Bruder­hof. We returned to the

empty place with sad and deeply perturbed hearts. We

went early to bed, but our uneasiness did not let us get

much sleep. Next morning we began to tidy the rooms.

The picture that met us cannot be described: food was

left on the tables, the bedclothes lay in a heap on the

beds. In the kindergarten the toys and furniture lay

about as the children had left them. In the laundry the

clothes lay unwashed, soaking partly in tubs and partly

in the boiler. It was a perfect wilderness, enough to

make the heart break and the eyes weep. Never had we

seen such a sight before…

This is my short account of how the Rhön Bruder­hof

was dissolved by the German government.

I experienced all this from the Alm Bruder­hof: the telephone calls, the worry over the safety of loved ones, and finally their arrivals. First the deported brothers and sisters (including Julia Lerchy, who came on a stretcher because of her bad back) came; they were followed several days later by the two Hutterian

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brothers and Hella Römer. How we rejoiced to have them all with us!

We were still sick with worry, of course, over the three brothers imprisoned in Germany. In those days

of concentration camps and "disappearances," it was only natural to fear the worst. As it was, they were held by the Gestapo for almost ten weeks, and then suddenly released. Because the story is such an amazing one, I would like to include it here.

On June 26, a Saturday, the prison warden appeared without warning and told the three brothers to pack their things immediately and get ready to leave. Not knowing where they were being moved, the brothers were anxious, especially when they were escorted to the prison gate and saw a black car waiting for them. Ordered to get in, they were driven away at high speed. After an hour or so, the driver stopped suddenly in the middle of a forest, told them to get out as quickly as possible, and directed them toward Königstein, a nearby town. Here they were met by Quakers who sent them from one connection to the next until they got to the Dutch border, which they reached at night.

Crossing into Holland through an unknown forest in the middle of the night proved to be a gamble. On the first attempt the brothers lost their way and came out on the German side, where a German guard stopped them. Incredibly, they were able to convince him that

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friends on the other side of the border expected them, and he not only let them across but also showed them the way to the nearest Dutch village. It was from here that they made their way to England.

Given the happenings of those last two years at the Rhön Bruder­hof – in particular the loss of my husband, our harassment by the State, and finally the loss of everything we had, one might ask how it was possible for us to go on. After all that we had experienced in seventeen years of living together in Germany – after all that we had struggled for, fought through, and won – what had we gained?

Looking back, I can only say that we did not feel so much disheartened as filled with deep thankfulness. Yes, the first wonderful chapters of our community life were closed in a way we might never have expected, but at the same time, new horizons were opened to us, and we looked forward to the future with eagerness and joy.

In the past, whenever we had put aside our fears and trusted in God, he had led us step by step, and we were certain he would guide us in the future as well. Hardships and struggles, human failings and attacks from without and within – these would always be a part of the path we had chosen. But how could we let

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such things stop us from continuing on the way? We had heard the call clearly, and there was no choice but to follow it.

Eber­hard says it much better than I could, and so

I would like to close this book with his words. They come from "Why We Live in Community," a statement he wrote at Sannerz in 1925:

In the life of a community, several decisive questions

need to be confronted again and again: How are we

called? To what are we called? Will we follow the call?

Only a few are called. Yet those who are – a small,

battle-tried band, who must sacrifice themselves again

and again – will hold firmly for the rest of their lives

to the common task shown them by God. They will be

ready to sacrifice life itself for the sake of unity…

Community life is like martyrdom by fire: it means

daily readiness to relinquish all our power, all our rights,

all the claims we commonly make on life and assume

to be justified. In the symbol of fire the individual logs

burn away so that, united, its glowing flames send out

warmth and light again and again into the land…

People tear themselves away from home, parents,

and career for the sake of marriage; for the sake of

wife and child they risk their lives. In the same way it is

necessary to break away and sacrifice everything for the

sake of our calling to this way. Our witness to voluntary

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community of goods and work, to a life of peace and

love, will have meaning only when we throw our entire

life and livelihood into it…

Our life, then, is a venture dared again and again.

Yet we are not the driving force in this – it is we who

have been driven and who must be urged on…Efforts to

organize community in a human way can only result in

ugly, lifeless caricatures. Only when we are empty and

open to the Living One – to the Spirit – can he bring

about the same life among us as he did among the early

Christians. The Spirit is joy in the Living One, joy in God

as the only real life; it is joy in all people, because they

have life from God. The Spirit drives us to all people and

brings us joy in living and working for one another, for it

is the spirit of creativity and love.

A Joyful Pilgrimage PostScript

Postscript

After the expulsion of the Bruderhof from Nazi Germany and the emigration of its members to England, the movement grew by leaps and bounds. Young British war-resisters and left-leaning progressives disillusioned by conventional religion seemed especially attracted, and by 1940 the community had more than doubled in size.

The same year, however, tensions with neighbors who feared the presence of "enemy" aliens in the country forced another emigration – this time across submarine-infested seas, to South America. There, in the Paraguayan wilderness, "Primavera" (Spanish for spring) was founded in 1940, and remained the center of Bruderhof activity for the next twenty years.

Life in Paraguay was hard, and not only because of the harsh climate, subtropical diseases, and primitive living conditions. Aside from these, the community underwent one internal crisis after another – most of them the result of power struggles – and there was a

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gradual shift "away from Jesus" (as Emmy put it) and toward a principled, legalistic emphasis on community as an end in itself.

In the 1950s, additional Bruderhofs were

established in Uruguay, England, Germany, New York, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. Emmy moved to Woodcrest, the first American one (in Rifton, New York), in 1960. Though seventy-six, she seemed rejuvenated by the influx of young seekers who had flocked to the communities in the post-war years, and she welcomed the fresh wind they brought with them. Whereas at Primavera Emmy felt Eberhard's original dream of a new society had been obscured by all-too-human attempts to preserve the Bruderhof as a structure, at Woodcrest she rejoiced to find new zeal, new spiritual freedom, and a new yearning for the leading of the Spirit.

Always eager to know what was on another person's heart, Emmy loved to talk with guests, young adults, and new members. A great listener, she was sensitive to their questions and struggles, and often had an encouraging word for them. At the same time she did not hesitate to express her conviction that the "first love" – the love of God that had inspired the founding of the community – must be kept alive. "The rule of the Holy Spirit in our life has to be proved over and over."

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Though Emmy missed her husband throughout her forty-five years of widowhood, her sense of loss only strengthened her resolve to keep his vision alive. In Primavera this cost her more than a few battles, in

particular when Eberhard's witness was criticized and even rejected by members as unviable or unrealistic.

Emmy refused to defend herself or to indulge in self-pity, however, and turned instead to the things that had sustained her through so many years. Aside from the New Testament (with her beloved Gospel of John), there were the Psalms, many of which she knew by heart, and her favorite choral works: Bach's Saint Matthew's Passion, Handel's Messiah, and Mendelssohn's Elijah. Let others misunderstand her – she was determined to hold faithfully to the way of Jesus shown to her and Eberhard from the very beginning of their life together. "In times of struggle, I am strong," she would say, or: "That is our life: a fight, or a celebration!" And she was always forgiving. Once a hurt had been resolved and forgiven, she never referred to it again.

Emmy was no pious matriarch. True, she was a mother to us all –to her own children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, to the young men and women who flocked to the community in the early years, and to many who joined later, leaving house and home, father and mother, relatives and friends for the sake of Jesus.

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But there was no hint of smugness in her – no selfserving religiosity, no consciousness of her authority as a co-founder (she hated the term), no awareness of her long experience. Rather it was her modesty and quiet

clarity, even in periods of turmoil and confusion, that made her a vital part of the community.

As for her legacy to succeeding generations, Emmy's devotion to the dissemination of her husband's writings is unmatched. In addition to reading through notes and transcripts of the several thousand talks Eberhard gave between 1907 and 1935, she spent years gathering and sorting his books, essays, articles, and letters, and copying out excerpts she found significant, often in beautiful calligraphy. Several of these collections became books: Salt and Light, When the Time Was Fulfilled, Love and Marriage in the Spirit, and Seeking for the Kingdom of God.

Emmy took great interest in every new chapter of our communal life, but she was especially happy about the revival of our publishing house in the 1960s. When the first copy of these memoirs (titled Torches Together) was presented to her at a festive gathering, she covered her face with her hands in embarrassed pleasure.

Even in her eighties, Emmy participated in as many communal meetings and mealtimes as she could, and whole-heartedly joined in the singing. In her early nineties, however, she told a visitor, "I am ready to

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leave this world. But each morning when I wake up, I am happy, because I have been given another day to love and to serve." Emmy died at Woodcrest Bruderhof on January 15, 1980, at the age of ninety-five.

A Joyful Pilgrimage The Bruderhof

INFORMATION

For more information or to arrange a visit, write to us at one of the addresses below:

Woodcrest Community

2032 Rte 213

Rifton NY 12471

Tel:845-658-8351

www.plough.com

Darvell Community

Robertsbridge, East Sussex

TN32 5DR UK

Tel:01580 88 33 44

www.ploughbooks.co.uk

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