1636 The Devil's Opera: Chapter Twenty Eight

    For several days, Samson’s end was never very far from the front of Simon’s mind. He would worry at the tale like a dog with a scrap of bone. How could a hero be so stupid? If Samson was God’s hero, why did God let him fall the way he did? Wouldn’t it have been better for the people if he had beaten the Philistines instead of being captured?

    Never far from those thoughts was the reminder that so many people called Hans “the Samson of Magdeburg,” which in turn would remind him of what Lieutenant Chieske had told him might result from Hans’ boxing career. As soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, he would shake his head violently and do anything he could to change what he was thinking about. But eventually his thoughts would circle back to Samson and the cycle would start over again.

    And so Simon found himself walking by St. Jacob’s church, the Filialkirche that served the poorest district of Magdeburg. Thoughts of Samson were running through his brain as he looked in the doorway to the shadowy interior of the church.

    Simon had not attended church since before the sack of the city by Pappenheim’s troops. But now, for the first time in what was literally years, Simon felt an urge to enter a church; this church, in the most down-trodden area of the Magdeburg that was being resurrected from the ashes of the old city. With hesitance he walked inside and stood in the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a few moments, he stepped forward with care, setting his feet down so that there was little noise as he made his way down the center. About half-way down, where he was just beginning to make out the details of the crucifix hanging on the wall behind the podium, he tripped over the edge of a paving stone that was protruding up from the floor by just enough to catch the toe of his shoe. Only by great exertion did he manage to keep himself from stretching his length on the floor. The resulting noise echoed through the building.

    “Who’s there?”

    Simon froze. If he’d known there was anyone in the church, he wouldn’t have entered. What to do?

    There was a shuffling sound as a figure moved from the front of the nave into a beam of light from one of the few windows. “Who’s there?” The voice was that of an old man. Simon relaxed. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

    “No,” Simon replied. “Um, I just . . . I was just passing by . . . and, um . . .”

    “And you wanted to see the inside of the church?” The speaker resolved into the figure of a stooped old man with flowing white hair and beard and dressed in rusty black clothes.

    “Well . . .”

    “It’s all right, son. There is nothing happening today. The wedding that was scheduled for this afternoon has been postponed.”

    The smile on the old man’s face prompted Simon to ask, “Why?”

    The old man chuckled. “Well, it seems that the bride’s mother invited the groom to dine with the family, and fixed a special dish. In the middle of the night the poor man awoke with stomach pains, and could not even clamber out of the bed before his bowels released. I understand it was rather noxious.”

    Simon giggled.

    “Well may you laugh, boy. But the groom accused his mother-in-law-to-be of attempting to poison him, and his betrothed began throwing everything at him that she could get her hands on because of the insult dealt her mother.”

    “So, they are not going to wed?” Simon said around another giggle about to escape.

    “No, they will probably marry after the heat of everyone’s anger cools off. But I wager it will be some time before the groom eats his bride’s mother’s cooking again.”

    That did it. Simon’s giggle escaped, followed by several chortles and even a guffaw or two. When his hilarity began to settle, the old man spoke up again.

    “Did you come just to hear the latest gossip from an old preacher, lad? Or did you have some question on your heart?”

    “Well . . .” Simon began, dragging the word out. The old man smiled encouragingly. “. . . it’s Samson, you see.”

    “Ah, Samson,” the old man nodded. He gestured with a gnarled hand. “Come, let us sit and discuss Samson.” When they had settled on the steps leading up to the podium, he faced Simon with faded blue eyes framed with wrinkles peering out from between his bushy white eyebrows and his beard.

    “So, lad . . . what is your name.”

    “Simon, sir.”

    “And I am Pastor Gruber.” He nodded. “So, Simon, which Samson are we to talk about?”

    Simon was perplexed. “You mean there is more than one?”

    The old pastor gave a hearty chuckle. “I meant did you want to talk about the Samson of the Bible or some other Samson?”

    “The one in the Bible, please, sir.”

    “Do you have a question, then?”

    “Well . . .” Simon hesitated, then poured out in a rush, “why was Samson such a fool? Why could he not see that Delilah was playing with him? Why did he tell her his secret so she could tell the Philistines and they could capture and blind him?” He stopped, breathless.

    Pastor Gruber reached up and ran rheumatism-twisted fingers through his beard. “Yes, indeed, those are good questions.” At least he wasn’t laughing at him, Simon thought to himself.

    “The first thing you must know, young Simon, is that all men, even the greatest of heroes, have flaws. Only our Savior is without flaw or imperfection. Even the greatest heroes of the Bible have flaws. Why, King David . . .” Pastor Gruber stopped for a moment. “But then, you are asking about Samson, not David.” He coughed for a moment, a deep wet sound. “Let us just say that Samson was a good example of a flawed hero.”

    “But he was so strong, and so great, and so mighty,” Simon protested.

    “The ancient Greeks tell us that the greater the hero, the deeper his flaws, the worst of which was arrogant pride, what they called hubris.” The old man raised a hand. “And certainly that seems to be true of Samson. I have often thought that Samson was not a very smart man, myself.”

    Simon was stunned. He’d come to the church looking for answers, only to find that the pastor had some of the same thoughts he had. That left his mind reeling for a moment. “But Delilah…” he finally said.

    “Ah, the harlot Delilah,” Pastor Gruber replied with a small smile. “How old are you, lad?”

    “Twelve, I think.”

    “Have you started looking at girls yet?”

    Simon sat back, startled and embarrassed. It was strange to him. Girls caught his eye recently in a way they never had before. Not that any would look at him, not once they saw his arm.

    “Never mind,” the pastor chuckled before Simon could respond. “If you have not yet, you will soon.”

    The old man sobered. “The attraction of a man for a woman is a gift from God, but it is also one of Satan’s greatest temptations. For some men, women are a weakness. They cannot stay away from them, especially if they are not their own wives. Samson was that way, if I read the scriptures correctly.” He sighed. “A man who has a weakness for women is disarmed when he meets one who is a subtle schemer and conniver like Delilah.”

    “So why didn’t God tell Samson to leave her alone?”

    “But he did, Simon. Samson was what they called a Nazirite, and he had rules that he was supposed to live by.” Pastor Gruber clicked his tongue. “He knew what God wanted from him. But Samson was a very proud man, so he did what he wanted.”

    “Why didn’t God stop Samson from meeting Delilah?”

    “You will have to ask God that question some day, young Simon, for I have no answer.” The pastor chuckled again. “In fact, I have my own list of questions. But consider Samson’s end.” He closed his eyes and quoted from memory.

    ”And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.”

    “What do you mean?” Simon asked.

    “At the end,” Pastor Gruber mused, “after he had failed, Samson remembered what God had called him to do. He called out to God, and God rewarded him for it.”

    “Rewarded? Being killed is a reward?” Simon’s questions were impassioned.

    “All men die, Simon.” The old pastor pointed out the door of the church. “Kings die, merchants die, soldiers and generals die, doctors and lawyers and farmers and bakers all die. Even old pastors die.” He laid a hand on his own chest. “No one escapes death, not even our Savior. Cheating death is never within our grasp, as much as some people try to do it.” He lowered his hand. “No, lad, what matters is how you die. Sometimes that matters even more than how you live. That was certainly so in Samson’s case. ‘So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.’ Despite his arrogant pride, it is not a bad epitaph for a hero who died defending his people.”

    Simon sat back, slumped. “I . . . I don’t know. I never thought of it that way. It just seemed so . . . so stupid, the way things happened.”

    Pastor Gruber gave his gentle smile. “But scripture says that the ways of the Lord are foolishness to men.”

    They sat in silence together for some time. The old pastor seemed to know when to quit talking, letting the boy’s mind work through everything that had been given him. At length, Simon straightened.

    “I need to think about this.” He faced Pastor Gruber. “Can I come back and talk with you again?”

    Again the gentle smile bloomed in the middle of the white whiskers. “Of course, young Simon. I am here most days. The senior pastors don’t let me preach much these days . . . my voice isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid, and I am a bit absent-minded at times. But they do not mind my spending time here where I can be a hand and a voice for those poor souls in this part of the city. And if there are weddings or such scheduled, we will find a quiet corner, you and I.”

    Simon stood and awkwardly bobbed his head. “Thank you, Pastor Gruber. I think you have helped me.”

    “The Lord helped you, lad. I am just an old man waiting for my days to end.”

    “Well, thank you anyway.” Simon walked to the doorway of the church, then turned to look back. Pastor Gruber stood in another beam of light from a window and raised a hand in farewell. Simon waved back, then plunged back into the streets of Magdeburg.