Mozart's Sister by Nancy Moser Page B

not close and I needed
one. Now. Just like Papa, when I got an idea, now was always preferable to later. Especially when it concerned my need to talk to God.
    I entered the church with trepidation. Would I be welcome?
Would God hear my prayers in such a place? Although I had heard
Papa suggest that some points of Lutheranism might be valid (we
even visited the church in Worms, where in 1521 Luther appeared
before the council for his radical views), he had made it very clear
that he wanted us to remain faithful to the Catholic faith. But surely
he would not object to my seeking solace for my troubled soul?
    I opened the massive doors and stepped inside onto the worn
stone floor of the vestibule. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to
the light. Straight ahead I could see a mighty altar with stained-glass
windows behind. On either side were pews facing each otherwhich I thought odd.
    Before entering the sanctuary I looked for a font of holy water
but found none. I'd never entered a house of worship without partaking of holy water. But my need was greater than my apprehension. I genuflected and slipped inside, taking a seat in the nearest
pew. I waited for God to smite me down.

    He did not. In fact, I felt quite safe here. I even felt His presence.
    I noticed there were some other worshipers sitting quietly by
themselves. It took me a few minutes to calm my breathing, which
had grown labored from the swift walk as well as my nervousness.
But soon I was ready to pray.
    But where to begin? I was not used to making up prayers: I said
ones from my prayer book or those taught to me as a child. Occasionally I'd offered one to the Almighty, but I was not good at such
things.
    I sat forward and took hold of the pew in front of me. I rested
my forehead on my hands. Perhaps I shouldn't be praying. My
thoughts were far from pure.
    "Miss?"
    I sat back and saw an old man in a black coat standing in the
aisle. He wore a white cravat like a priest, except there were two
long bands hanging down upon his chest. Was he a pastor, a vicar,
a preacher? I repeated the line I had learned here in England. "I
speak no English."
    He smiled. "Deutsch?"
    Relief poured over me. `7a."
    "Ways ist los?" he asked.
    Much was the matter. But how much could I say to this man?
He was not a priest. And yet his manner was kind, his eyes attentive.
    He spread a hand toward the pew. "May I sit?"
    I moved over, giving him room. He sank onto the pew with a
groan as if his muscles complained. He spoke to me in German, his
accent good enough to make me believe he had lived there once.
"You come here with a problem?"
    I nodded.
    He smiled at me. "I listen well." He pointed upward. "And so
does He."
    I nodded again and let a sentence loose. "Thou shalt not covet."
    It was his turn to nod. "Ali. What do you covet?"
    This was harder to say. "My brother ... I ..." I drew in a fresh breath. "My brother receives more attention than I. We used to be
equal, but now ... he has risen above me."

    "'Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."'
    "But I am talented too."
    His left eyebrow rose. He did not know who I was, and I was
not about to tell him. He put a hand on mine. "It's hard seeing
praise go to someone else. Make the Almighty proud, young miss.
For `Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a
fall. "
    I had not heard these words before.
    The pastor took a deep breath. "And perhaps it is also difficult
seeing him take too much pride in himself? Perhaps your brother
makes you feel unworthy?"
    I shook my head vehemently. "But he doesn't! He's very gracious. He's my best friend."
    "Then who?"
    I stood. I did not want to delve further into my thoughts, even
if they could be offered as prayer. "I must go," I said.
    I fled the church and ran home to Mama, who loved me. To
Wolfie, who encouraged me.
    And to Papa.

     

E~271~ C1-2
    Although we did not reschedule our concert with the cellist Carlo
Graziani, Papa did