Peaks Island, a Lamp, and the Ghost of Hitler
It is New Year’s Eve on Peaks Island. A slushy mixture of ice and seawater churn and grind against the beach. Sandi and I lean into the wind as we inch our way uphill, barely at eye-level with plowed snow. A pale-yellow half-moon throws a faint shadow over the school yard where phantom children scamper amid the clanging of empty swings.
A dug path leads to a modest one story, shed-roofed cottage. Opening the door, Arnold Berndt, bent-backed and mostly deaf extends a hand and welcomes us inside. “It’s not much,” he grins, “but it keeps the rain out!” Arnold’s son, Peter, who undoubtedly shoveled the pathway, takes our coats and offers us a glass of wine. The door to Arnold’s bedroom is half-open, and on the night stand I count six prescription bottles. Across from where we sit, a chestnut-stained book shelf takes up an entire wall. The books are heavy and dark, books on philosophy, religion, ethics and war. Arnold settles into a recliner and folds his hands, silently tapping his index fingers together.
As he shifts his head, he suddenly yelps and rubs his neck. The sound is involuntary and sharp, like a wounded animal, and I realize the pain must be from the pinched nerve I am treating him for. Now, well into his 90’s, he spends much of the day and night in in the back room, resting in bed. Fortunately, his son Peter is visiting from Europe and can shop and cook. Several island women stop by regularly with hot meals and keep him informed of island news and gossip. He is well-cared for.
A blast of wind funnels up from the beach through a grove of staghorn sumac and alders, rattling and groaning against the cottage. “You know,” Arnold says in a thick German accent. Arnold’s voice drops to a whisper. “I heard Hitler speak.” “I went to a rally in 1933. Yes, I am quite sure, it was 1933. Hitler’s voice was like both honey and hissing acid. He was not yet in power, but you could see it coming. I remember looking round at my friends and neighbors. They were nodding their heads. Afterwards my girlfriend, Erna, a Jew, felt the stares and suspicion, and we both knew that there would be a time when we must leave.
“Hitler’s power slowly grew. He was a mad man, yes, but he was patient and understood the common man’s prejudices. One day after our marriage, as our fear grew, we slipped out of Germany. By the time Germany annexed Poland, we were already on the move. We lived briefly in France, in Spain, in North Africa. Everywhere we tried to settle, it was the same. Now it was my time to feel the eyes of suspicion, the whispers, the taunting. I was not Jewish like Erna but an unwelcome German refugee.”
Arnold’s eyes widened, unblinking. He took a sip of wine and swallowed. Even the simple act of swallowing seemed to aggravate his pain. He reached up and massaged his neck. I thought back to my first glimpse of Arnold six years prior as he skimmed across the bay windsurfing. When he pulled up on the beach, I walked over to chat. I told him that I worried that if he slipped off the board, he lacked the strength to save himself. But Arnold was deceptive. His strength, he told me, was in his balance and feel for the wind. He never fell. It seemed beyond belief that he taught windsurfing at Trefethan, our local boating club.
“So, while Hitler slaughtered hundreds of thousands,” Arnold continued, “Erna and I were nomads. We were young and had each other, but money? We had enough to board a freighter for Palestine. We fed on dinner scraps. It was said that in Palestine, we could sit out the war and Erna and I might make a new home. On the fourth night at sea, I was on deck watching for the coast. Ahead I could see lights. It was Palestine. Then I heard voices up on the bow. The crew was ordered to turn the ship around. The port was closed to refugees.
“I found Erna. Come. Leave our belongings. Take what you can carry. We need to go. The freighter began a slow turn and we stood on the rail and jumped. We swam towards shore. Somehow, we made the beach and were found the next morning.”
“Did they allow you to stay?” I asked.
“Yes. They needed workers. I had building skills. Erna, an educated woman, found employment at the British Consulates office. She was hired as a house-keeper.”
“That’s an amazing story,” I said. “Thank you.”
We sat quietly, alone in our thoughts. Arnold Berndt heard Hitler speak. Peter poured his father and me another glass of wine. Sandi pointed to a wood-framed photo on the bookcase and asked Mr. Berndt, “Is that Erna and you in Palestine?”
Without looking up, Mr. Berndt, said, “Yes. Yes. That was taken the day Erna was promoted. She became the Chief Consulate’s secretary and housekeeper. It came with a small raise. They recognized that she was competent and efficient. We were happy.” I looked to Sandi; it was time to go, but Mr. Berndt raised a hand. “Please stay.” He cautiously swallowed another sip of wine, exhaled, and relaxed against the head rest. We waited.
“Erna and I lived in Palestine from 1943 to 1948. The Jews were sent to concentration camps in Europe, but in Palestine they themselves persecuted the Arabs. Two wrongs do not make a right. Always, we see our differences more than our similarities. Even here, on Peaks Island, we often see only the differences. Because I am German and I don’t speak like others, they assume certain things. I hear the whispers.
“Let me tell you a story. One day in Palestine, two Christian priests visited the consulate. They were of different denominations. They requested a meeting with the head man, the British Commander. He invited them in. Erna served tea.
“The two men sat across from the Commander in their fine linen of gold and purple and scarlet. The shorter of the two held a cardboard box. He explained that their congregations shared an ancient stone church of worship in Jerusalem. Both congregations claimed ownership of the church, but for now, a compromise was working, a schedule rigidly adhered to. At certain times, on certain days, one congregation came to worship. On other days, at certain times, it was the other congregation’s turn. The two congregations rarely saw each other. It was better that way.
“The taller priest took up the story, ‘On the ceiling and walls of our church are dozens and dozens of lamps, some, it is said, dating back to the time of Christ. The lamps are revered. Each congregation understands which lamps belong to whom, their ownership tracing back through generations of worshippers. And on this,’ he turned to the shorter priest who listened intently, ‘there is general agreement.’
“The British Commandant said to the two holy men, ‘Well, I must say, I congratulate you. The memories of Arabs, Christians, and Jews are long. There has been conflict. There has been war. You have embraced the spirit of compromise. You are wise men.’ He held out his hand. “We must spread this spirit you have found in your hearts.”
“The two holy men’s faces drooped. They fiddled with their ornamentation. Then, each gently holding one end of the box, carefully exposed a dented, faded copper lamp. To get a better look, my Erna placed a tray of pastry on the table between them and the Commandant. She lingered by the door, listening and watching. The two Priests placed the lamp on the table. It could be twenty years old or more than a thousand. Who could say?
‘We agree on the ownership for each lamp in our church,’ the taller of the two Priests said, ‘All of them, except for this lamp. This lamp, by our records, clearly belongs to us. It has belonged to us for more than 500 years, perhaps longer.’
‘By our records,’ the shorter Priest interrupted, his voice rising, ‘This lamp belongs to our congregation. It is sacred to our people. We had no idea that the other congregation claimed this lamp until very recently.’ Then he removed a sheath of yellowed papers from his satchel and declared, ‘Here is our proof of ownership for the lamp.’
‘And here is our proof of the correct, lawful ownership,’ the taller Priest quickly replied, his voice rising as he removed an envelope from beneath his vestments. ‘We have come to you for a solution. There are those in my congregation who feel that the only solution is to take what is ours’ The Commandant waved him off and motioned for Erna.
“The Priests settled back into their chairs, eying each other suspiciously. Erna refilled their teacups. The British Commandant rested his hand on his chin before awkwardly crossing and re-crossing his arms. He silently noted that the two men were not armed. Good. Then he slowly reached over and picked up the lamp and turned it from side to side, studying it from all angles.
“He turned to the two Priests and said, ‘I can see how critical it is to determine the true ownership of this sacred lamp. Of course, one solution would be to agree that in the case of this single lamp among the hundreds of lamps adorning the ceiling of your beautiful church, this lamp would belong to both congregations.’
“The Priest’s eyes darkened. ‘No. Absolutely not!’”
“The Commander exhaled slowly. Silence filled the room. “You must understand that I don’t have the background to make this determination. Fortunately, we have experts in Great Britain, world renowned experts, who can establish the rightful ownership of this lamp.” In one sweeping motion he stood and shook each of the Priests’ hands. ‘I believe we have everything we need. Will you abide by their decision?’
“The two holy men nodded reverently, each believing that the experts would surely favor the righteousness of their case. ‘Good. With your permission, I will take this lamp and send it on to Great Britain by steamer. There is no question we can properly get to the bottom of this. Of course, it may take time,” the Commandant added. ‘There’s a war going you know.’ The Priests said they understood. In another moment, they were gone.
“Erna cleared the table. The Commandant picked up the ancient lamp and held the door for her. ‘My Dear Erna, I have one more item for you.’ He gently placed the lamp on the tray and picking up a napkin, wiped his hands. ‘Take this lamp. Do what you will. Promise me that I will never see it again. Do you understand? Never.’”
Mr. Berndt’s hands settled on his lap, his eyes alert and bright. Peter quietly cleared off the table. Sandi and I zipped up our parkas. I cracked open the front door. “And the lamp?” I asked, turning back to the warmth of the wood stove. “The lamp,” Mr. Berndt eyes rested on me. “You can take a look at the lamp if you wish.” He pointed towards the top corner of the bookcase. There, in a musty corner, acting as a bookend, was the lamp.