Catholic church and Jewish cemetery

Yesterday I bid adieu to the St. Petrus Canisius organ with a few adrenaline-pumping run-throughs of Franck's Grande Pièce Symphonique and Mendelssohn's sixth organ sonata. While the Mendelssohn should transfer decently enough from the 32-register Rieger to the (oh dear) 8-register Walker at my gig back home, the Franck deserves better and has me chomping at the bit to get back into the demo cycle at Duke. Aeolian and Flentrop organs, here I come.

I was sorry that Complainant Number Two didn't show up to kvetch, as I had been looking forward to congratulating her on finally driving me away from the church forever, never to return. But in her place, a soft-spoken older gentleman appeared behind the organ bench and politely inquired about the practice schedule. I referred him to the secretary and regular organist. One Franck and one Mendelssohn later, there he was, sitting in the back of the church. As I left, he said, "that was lovely, really lovely. Are you preparing for a concert? When will you be playing again?" In retrospect, it was probably good that Complainant Number Two wasn't there, as the meeting of matter and anti-matter would have annihilated the sanctuary.

On the way home, I contemplated whether to stop by the Jewish cemetery, a place I hadn't realized I had been driving past four times a week for the past three months until the BZ published an article on the cemetery a few days ago. I was still waffling when I turned on the car radio, and what should be playing but Mahler's "Songs of a Wayfarer" in a chamber arrangement by Arnold Schoenberg. Oy gevalt. I took the hint and parked.

The cemetery is relatively new. Between 1424 and 1806, Jews were prohibited from living in Freiburg. In 1863, changes to Baden's laws finally allowed Freiburg's resident Jews to form a congregation. The cemetery was founded in 1870. It is still used today but is nearing capacity.

The cemetery has a noticeable absence of gravestones marking death dates in the 1940s. There is of course a memorial "to the Jewish victims of the Gewaltherrschaft [tyranny], 1933-1945." But the memorial most interesting to me was "to our fallen sons of the World War, with thankfulness and reverence, 1914-1918." I've seen cross after cross honoring WWI soldiers of various towns, but never paused to think that some of the fallen were left off the lists because they weren't Christian.

Update 22 Dec. 2009: A friend insists that Jews were well enough integrated into German society during WWI that their names would have been included in WWI memorial monuments, even on crosses. So I should have said, it never occurred to me that Jews were fighting for the fatherland alongside Christians during WWI, given what followed in the 1930s.

Bonding

This morning, I was standing outside the St. Petrus Canisius administration building next to the church, waiting for the secretary to arrive so I could pick up the organ key. The weather was cold, windy, and wet. Complainant Number Two shuffled down the sidewalk, hunched over her walker but looking surprisingly sprightly in her clear plastic rain cap and clear blue plastic slicker.

"What, is nobody inside?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"But they have Sprechstunden [visiting hours with the priest] starting at 9:00."

"No, starting at 10:00. It's 10:05 now."

"What?! They ought to be punctual!," she declared, indignant that I should be made to suffer so.

"Yeah, but it's cold, and it's raining. Someone will come."

She shook her head disapprovingly, wished me a "schoenen Morgen noch" ("nice rest of the morning"), and to my horror, she entered the church. Clearly she hadn't recognized me as the disrespectful organist who thinks the sanctuary is a practice room.

A minute later, the secretary arrived and gave me the key, and I went into the church to practice. As I walked past Complainant Number Two, I heard the gears click inside her head. "Ach, she's the organist," she muttered.

She shuffled up to the organ. I had already rehearsed what I was going to say to her the next time she complained, things about Psalm 150 and making a joyful noise with loud clashing cymbals, and it's right there in the Bible, so shut up and deal with it, you old bat. I braced myself.

"Excuse me, but may I say something?" she began, as she always begins.

"Yes, naturally," I replied, as I always reply.

"What do you think of the advent candles here?" The change in script caught me off guard. "They're white. What do you think of white advent candles?"

I looked at the advent wreath and observed, "white's the wrong color, isn't it?" Suddenly we were on the same side, united in our knowledge that someone who should have known better had screwed up. You don't mess with tradition.

"They're supposed to match the liturgical colors," Complainant Number Two complained gruffly, settling into her element. "They should be yellow or blue."

"Or purple. In the U.S. they could be purple."

"Purple? Really? What are these people thinking? White is for celebrating, not for preparing."

"Easter, right, not Advent. But I believe the rules about liturgical colors date back only to the 19th century, so it hasn't always been this way."

"I don't understand you."

"Sorry, I'm from the U.S., my German's not so good. But I think the rules about the colors aren't all that old."

"Hunh. OK. Well, enjoy your practicing."

And that was that. Maybe we'll find something else to complain about together next week.

Complainant number two

Complainant number two was back again yesterday, vociferous as ever. Indeed, she's been back almost every Monday and Thursday since she first chewed me out a month ago. She chews me out not just for the benefit of God, but also on behalf of the invisible multitudes I'm driving away from the church by practicing. (Of course, I prefer to think of myself as defending the church against hordes of martens, but I haven't mentioned that yet.)

Yesterday, however, I was armed with a mediator: an organ teacher who speaks fluent German, who knows how to decline articles and implement all the formal-you pronouns without hesitation, and who wasn't going to let my lesson be interrupted. He modeled for me how to try to explain a situation, and how to give up, turn one's back, and just get on with things.

Annoying the elderly

Catholic churches in Freiburg are often left unlocked during the day. When I practice at St. Petrus Canisius, it isn't unusual for people to come in and out of the sanctuary to pray, collect holy water, or listen. Today was my day to annoy the elderly.

My first complainant, missing a few teeth and not having shaved in a few days, quietly shuffled up behind me on a cane. "What are you doing?" he said. "Are you practicing? It's too loud." ("Too loud?" I thought, "but this is the quiet part!"). "When I stand in the back of the church," he continued, "it's too loud. It hurts my ears. It's painful. I was walking past outside, and I heard it. You're going to ruin your hearing, sitting here playing that loud. How many decibels ya got there, anyway? You play here all the time? No? You a student? That's good. This thing is too loud--and it was too expensive too. I tell ya what, they should have gotten a smaller organ, a nice quiet one, and sent all the money they wasted on this one to that good lady in India, what was her name? Yeah, Mother Theresa. Yeah, what a waste. OK, you keep practicing, but play quietly or your hearing's gonna be shot. Have a good day."

Complainant number two, hunched over her walker, her white hair in a tight bun, arrived behind me a few minutes later. "This is a house of God, not a practice room," she said angrily. "A house for prayer, not for recreation. I can't pray here. Why do they allow this? Things have really changed, and not for the better. It's shameful." As a representative of Young People These Days, I told her I could stop playing for a while if she liked. She just looked at me disdainfully--"a house of prayer, I say"--and left me terrified to touch the keys until she had disappeared into the back of the church.

As soon as complainant two had opened up some space, complainant number three occupied it, looking somewhat more sprightly in his bright red cardigan. "Are you the pastor?" he asked. "No, of course you aren't, you're a woman. Well, where's the pastor?" ("Uh oh," I thought, "he's with complainant number two--I'm gonna get in trouble now--they're going to go complain about disrespectful noise in a house of God.") I told him I didn't know, but that someone in the office could probably help him. He sighed. "No, no, I don't need to bother the pastor. {sigh} What is it with this place? I have absolutely no affinity for it. It's impersonal. All stone, cold and hard. Unfriendly. {sigh} There's no warmth. I prefer smaller churches." He started to walk away, then turned back to me. "I'm not asking for decoration, you know," he said, coming up to the organ again; "I just want the building to speak to me, to be inviting. {sigh} Well, maybe I'll go see in the office about the pastor. {sigh} You keep practicing now. Have a nice day."

What a far cry from the two applauding novices who hovered perkily behind me in their black and white robes while I practiced three weeks ago.

With the afternoon before me and the promise of spending at least an hour with my fellow Tenoress at choir practice tonight, I figure there are abundant opportunities to annoy more people before I hit the sack.