A spoon for Hitler

 Father Gabriel had mostly managed to avoid the Germans since they’d occupied his town. They showed no interest in his church, mostly allowing the townsfolk to attend Sunday service unmolested, and he never ventured into town these days, not with his knees as they were.

It was therefore completely out of the blue when a German officer, clearly of high standing, though Gabriel knew nothing of German military ranking, marched into his vestry unannounced.

“Can I help you?” Gabriel managed to ask without stammering.

“I would like a confession,” said the German.

“I am sorry,” Father Gabriel said, “This is a protestant church, we do not take confession here.”

“You misunderstand me,” the officer said, “I wasn’t asking you if you’d like to give me confession, I was telling you that you would.”

“Well, we don’t have a confessional.”

“Here is fine,” the officer said. “Unless I should fear spies.”

“No, no spies. There’s no-one in the church right now.”

“Good, in that case hear my confession.”

“Fine. Tell me what it is you have done.”

“It is not what I have done, father, I have no shame about past deeds, this is war, if I’ve killed a soldier, or even a woman or child, that is all part of the greater good.”

“I see,” said father Gabriel, although what he thought was a great deal more.

“But what I have been asked to do tonight, well that is much worse, that is a great sin.”

“If what you have been asked to do tonight is so bad, I would advise you not to do it. Surely there is another way.”

“That’s why I’m here, father. The other way. I have been asked to go to St Brian’s Abbey and take their holy spoon for Hitler – you know, John the Baptist’s teaspoon. Quite what’s so holy about the spoon he used to make his morning cuppa with I don’t know.”

“I’m afraid the translation is quite inadequate,” Father Gabriel found himself saying. “It was far more than John the Baptist’s teaspoon, it was the spoon he used in his baptism ceremonies, which were, of course, amongst the very first baptisms in the Christian church. The spoon consequently dates back to the time of Jesus himself, it is perhaps the oldest, most significant holy relic in the world today.”

“That’s if it’s real.”

The father allowed himself a subtle smile. “It’s true that there are at least two other churches claiming they have the original spoon.”

“Well, genuine or not, I have been told I must find the spoon at all costs. If necessary I am to torture and kill every single monk in the order.”

“But there are over a hundred …”

“Precisely. Which is why I have come to you. As a holy man, living in the shadow of the abbey, you can reason with the monks, ensure that they have the spoon ready to hand over when we arrive, thus avoiding unnecessary bloodshed.”

“But if they refuse?” Gabriel knew the abbot well enough to know he was a stubborn man.

“Then they will have been warned we are coming. If they wish to flee for their lives they can. If they stay … then I can feel no guilt for doing my duty.”

His ‘confession’ over, the German officer left the church.

Although the abbey was nearby, a mere two-mile walk from the town, it involved a climb up a steep hill and Gabriel’s with his knees as they were he was no longer up to the challenge of the climb.

Instead, he sent ‘his boy’, Thomas, his housekeeper’s son, who was always around the church, either helping out, or making a nuisance, frequently both.

“You are to tell the abbot that the German’s are coming tonight for John the Baptist’s teaspoon.”

“His teaspoon?”

“It is a poor translation, it is the spoon he used for baptisms, but that’s not important. You must make sure that abbot has the spoon ready to hand over as soon as the Germans arrive, to avoid any ‘trouble’. Or, if he refuses to hand over the spoon, you must tell him to leave the abbey immediately, that the troops have orders to torture and kill every monk until they have the spoon in their possession. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then go now. Hurry, if they are to flee they have little time.”

Thomas ran all the way to the abbey, slowing to walking speed only for the climb up the hill.
Breathless, at the top of the hill, he ran through the monastery doors.

“Where is abbot” he asked the first monk to challenge him. “I have urgent news, the Nazis are coming.”

“This way,” the monk beckoned. They walked along a long corridor until they reached a door. The monk knocked and gestured for the boy to wait.

“Come in,” a voice said. The boy pushed past the monk and charged through the door.

In rushed, slightly-garbled sentences, the boy explained that the German’s were coming, that they were after the holy spoon, that the abbot should have the spoon ready to hand over, or flee now, as the Germans had orders to torture and kill.

“Thank you,” the abbot said. “It is helpful to have this warning.”

“Which will you do?” the boy asked.

The abbot paused, as if to consider carefully. “Neither,” he said eventually. “This order have lived in the abbey for over a thousand years, we will not leave now. As for handing the holy spoon to Hitler, that is unthinkable.”

“Then you will do nothing? You will die.”

“Die, yes, I will probably die, if what you say is true. But I will not do nothing. I will ensure that the spoon is safe, even if it is the last thing I do.”

Thomas was dismissed and the abbot made his plans. It was clear that the spoon had to leave the country, had to be taken to unoccupied lands. He had to chose one of his order who could be trusted to make this journey. In fact, it was a simple decision. Maxime was the right age, young enough to make an arduous journey, old enough not to be stopped at every checkpoint. He was also fluent in French, Flemish and German, brave, trustworthy and, the abbot smiled as he considered this, one of the few monks in the order who could pass as a normal citizen.

Maxime was duly summoned and his task explained. He was to take the spoon to Brussels, to the Church of St Martin’s, where he should hand a letter to Father Samuel. The abbot passed the letter to Maxime. “Father Samuel is an old friend of mine, and an enemy of the Nazis. He will have the connections and contacts to get you over the border, and keep you safe in the meantime.”

Maxime was given clothes, money and a very out of date map of Brussels. The abbot advised that Maxime should avoid taking a train from the nearby town, as the Germans were likely to be watching the station. Instead, he endured an eight-mile walk through the woods, to reach a town on a different train line.

After a strenuous, nervous walk through the woods, where it seemed Nazis were hiding behind every tree, Maxime finally reached the town, and found the station. He was the only person there. He had a long, nervous wait for the next train, but eventually it arrived and he climbed on undisturbed. He took a circuitous route to Brussels, which took him until the afternoon of the next day. He found the church, in spite of the map, and spent fifteen minutes walking around the area before going in, but could see no sign of any German soldiers.

Inside, he paused at the rear of the church, pretending to admire a carving in the wall, whilst slowly checking out the congregation. There were no German uniforms, but there were far too many men of military age, many of them tall, handsome and blond, about as unbelgian as you can get. It was a trap, he realised and turned and left the church, hoping that nobody had seen him enter.

Once he left the church he quickened up his speed, but it was only a matter of seconds before the first of the Germans followed him. He heard a cry, and all around him men stepped out from doorways and sidestreets. He turned down an alleyway and sprinted as fast as he could. The alley snaked round into a  network of passageways, sidestreets and backalleys. He could hear what sounded like a full regiment of soldiers running behind him by this time, and though he currently had a choice of passageways he was aware that he would soon either end up at a dead end or back on the main thoroughfare, where he would soon be surrounded.

He tried door handles as he passed them and went into the first door that opened, closing it immediately behind him. He found a light switch, which revealed that he was in a warehouse. He tried lifting one of the crates to block the door, but it was too heavy. He opened the lid, planning to remove some of the contents so that it was portable. Inside the box were spoons. Thousands of spoons.
Maxime checked his pocket and retrieved the holy spoon. It looked, well, older, thinner and lacked the sheen of a newly minted spoon, but it was not totally dissimilar in appearance. He counted three rows deep and thirteen spoons across and had the spoon there, in the box that was, he counted, thirteen boxes from the right wall.

He quickly replaced the lid and sought another exit. There was another door at the rear of the warehouse, which he ran to, but it was too late. He heard the door open behind him. He ran outside and started running down the street, but his running attracted attention.

“There he is,” he heard somebody shout in German. It was the last thing he ever heard. He was shot as he ran, killed instantly. Perhaps it was for the best, for being dead he could not be tortured, could not be forced to reveal where he had hidden the spoon.

The spoon was saved from the Nazis, but it was also lost. Or was it? Maybe that old spoon you found amongst you grandfather’s things when he died, maybe that is the holy spoon, John the Baptist’s ‘teaspoon’, though that is a poor translation.