She held it up for him to see. “This is the book Hans bought for us and Reissners that gives the history of the Oberammergau play.”
“Oh. I thought it was in German.”
“It is, but with parallel columns in English.” Then she shot him a dirty look. “Besides, I can read German. Maybe not as well as you but—”
He dodged that one by changing the subject. “Oh, by the way, I asked Hans about those guys at the train station. They were missionaries. Just like I told you.”
“Really? I mean, didn’t you say that it’s only been in the last twelve months that the German government started letting American missionaries back in?”
“I did. Hans doesn’t know all of the details, but evidently the new mission president here wrote to the German Ministry of Culture and told them that he had one hundred and thirty-seven American missionaries serving in Germany. He reminded them about the help the Church gave the German people after the war and asked if they would allow the missionaries to attend the play in Oberammergau, since it is one of the great cultural events in the country. And to everyone’s astonishment, the Ministry said yes.”
Edie was incredulous. “This is the same government that was putting missionaries in jail before the war, right?”
“No, not really. This is the new Weimar government, and while they are hated by a lot of the people, the new constitution they instituted is a remarkable improvement over the old one. It guarantees freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and so on. Paula told me that they’re letting the Church rent halls and chapels now. And when a couple of local principalities tried to run the elders out, they were actually rebuked by the central government.”
“Amazing.”
“That’s not all. Not only did the German government approve of the missionaries coming down here, they told the German railroad to charter a couple of railway cars and bring the missionaries down here—all one hundred and thirty-seven of them—at the government’s expense! Hans was flabbergasted when he learned that. He thinks it’s because people know that our Church reached out and helped the German people in significant ways.”
“So are the missionaries going to be there with us on Friday?”
“No. They attended the play yesterday, and they were waiting for their train to take them back north.”
“Unbelievable.”
Mitch walked over to stand beside Edie. “So what are you learning?”
“Actually, it’s fascinating. Can I read you some of it?”
“Of course.” He went around to his side of the bed, propped a pillow up against the backboard, and sat down beside her.
“Okay.” Edie flipped back a few pages and began. “‘Though there is evidence that the village now called Oberammergau may date back to as early as the seventh or eighth century—’” She looked up. “Can you believe that? That’s over a thousand years ago. But anyway.” She continued reading. “—its real identity started in 1330, when Emperor Ludwig IV deeded it to the Catholic monastery at Ettal.” Edie looked over at Mitch. “Even that date just staggers my mind. That’s more than a hundred and fifty years before Columbus even set sail for America.”
“That’s one thing about Europe,” Mitch said. “In America, we think something is old if it dates back a hundred years. Here, people have garages and barns that are three hundred years old.”
Edie nodded and went on. “‘At that time, most of the villagers in Oberammergau made a meager living from farming or as wood-carvers. A few also worked on a road that the Emperor was building between Garmisch-Partenkirchen and Schongau. Unfortunately, the very highway that the villagers helped to build led to disaster. The Thirty Years’ War had been raging for over a decade when in July of 1632, Swedish horsemen from the army of Protestant King Gustavus II advanced as far south as Oberammergau and Ettal. They looted some homes in Oberammergau and then rode on to the monastery, where they killed a priest and the organist. Emperor Ludwig immediately sent his best general against them, and they were forced to retreat. But the damage had been done. Within weeks, the Black Death was ravaging Munich and villages to the north of them. Some 15,000 would die in Munich alone in 1634 and 1635.
“‘As for Oberammergau, when the plague struck nearby Ettal, the villagers took immediate action and controlled the spread of the disease by preventing any strangers from entering their village. Then one night, a villager who had been infected while away from the village snuck back in to see his family. That was all it took. Normally the village experienced about one death per month, occasionally two. But within the next few months, eighty-four people died. In one month alone, March of 1633, they lost thirty-four in the village. And the disease was still spreading.’”
That shocked Mitch. “The population of the village back at that time was probably no more than five or six hundred. For Monticello, that would be like losing about two hundred people.”
“Yes. One can only imagine the terror they must have felt. Okay, now here’s the part that we’d heard about. ‘By the spring of 1633, the people were desperately afraid that their village was going to be completely wiped out. So, with the encouragement of their parish priest, the villagers held a meeting and made a covenant with God. They promised that if He would spare the village from the plague, then they would put on a play depicting the story of the last week of Christ’s mortal life. What followed was amazing. By July of that year, even though the plague was still raging in Munich and throughout Europe, the death rate in Oberammergau dropped to one single death. Believing that God had answered their prayers, they immediately set to work planning for a play they would put on the following summer. That was the summer of 1634.’”
Suddenly Edie’s eyes were glistening. “I love this next part. Listen to this. ‘In contrast to sacred vows made by individuals, the villagers of Oberammergau were determined to do something that allowed the entire village to show their gratitude to the Lord. So they did not vow to build a new church or something that could easily be fulfilled by the wealthier people in the town. Nor did they make a vow that could quickly be fulfilled and then forgotten. They wanted something that every person in the village, poor and rich, even young children, could participate in over generations to come. So they vowed that they would put on the holy play the next year and every tenth year for ever after. And that vow is still being honored today, 288 years later.’”
Edie closed the book and looked up at Mitch. “That is astonishing.”
“Hans told me something else,” he said. “He said that for that first play, they didn’t have a theater, of course. So they performed it in the largest spot of open land in the village, which was the parish cemetery.”
One hand came up to Edie’s mouth. “Where their own people had been buried? How awful!”
“Not so,” Mitch said. “Think about it. What could be more appropriate? They would perform the play that depicts Christ’s triumph over death in the very place where so many of their loved ones who had died of the plague were now buried.”
The tears spilled over. “Oh, Mitch. That is an incredibly beautiful thought.” She shut the book and scooted over beside him and took his hand. “My dear, dear Mitch. Thank you so much for making this part of your life part of my life.”
Chapter Notes
Scharffs is the one who reports the astonishing fact that the German government approved and paid for 137 Mormon missionaries to attend the Passion Play (see Mormons in Germany, 61). He credits this as happening in 1921, but that is obviously an error since the play was postponed until 1922.
In 1984, a special presentation of the Passion Play in Oberammergau was presented in celebration of the 350th anniversary of the first presentation of the play. Through an unusual set of circumstances, my wife and I were able to attend that performance, and we were both deeply moved by the village’s continuing commitment to a vow made over three centuries earlier. Many of the details given here come from Passionsspiele Ob
erammergau: 1634–1984, 4–9, which we purchased at that time.
July 14, 1922, 8:40 a.m.—Front yard, Eckhardt dairy farm
Emilee knelt down in front of Alisa. She straightened her daughter’s dress and then pinned her hair back with a brightly colored barrette. “Promise me you’ll be good for Onkel Karl.”
“I will, Mutti.”
Benji came over. “I’ll help watch her, Tante Emilee.” He looked down at Alisa. “Do you want to come with me, Lisa? We’ll have lots of fun.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Alisa took his hand as a huge smile spilled across her face. As they started away, Alisa looked back and waved at her mother. “Bye, Mutti,” she called.
Emilee waved and then straightened to look at Edie and Mitch. “That boy of yours is a jewel. I’ve never seen her take to anyone quite like that.”
“He’s got younger cousins,” Mitch said, “but it surprises us a little too.”
Inga came up to join them. “And Miki and Abby are like sisters now. It was good that we let them have yesterday to get acquainted. I don’t think they’re going to miss us at all today.”
“Miss who?” Hans said, slipping his arm through his mother’s. “With three picnic baskets full of food, they may not be back until Sunday. Look at them. It’s like we’re not even here.”
He was right. There were four cars lined up in front of the main house. Three of them—Hans’s, Rudi’s, and Wolfie’s—would be taking all of the children except for the two babies to the Linderhof Palace and then up into the mountains for a picnic and a hike. The children were so excited that they were climbing into the cars chattering with each other and not even thinking to wave good-bye. They would be shepherded by Ilse and Karl, Heidi and Klaus, and Rudi.
The fourth car—a Brennabor Alpensieger that belonged to Hans Sr. and Inga—was headed for Oberammergau with the seven adults who would be attending the play. It would be crowded, but it was only a ten-minute ride.
Hans would stay behind and spend the day with his father and also help Anna, Rudi’s wife, take care of the two babies. Since Anna was nursing two-month-old Rudi Jr., she would also nurse Emilee’s baby if she refused to take a bottle. Emilee and Anna had worked it out that Emilee would call home during the two-and-a-half-hour meal break. If Yolanda was being difficult, she would race home and nurse her. If not, she would stay with the others.
With horns honking and kids finally sticking their heads out the windows and waving, the caravan drove off. The adults watched them drive away and then started to turn toward the house. Jacob called for their attention. “Since we don’t have to leave for another half an hour, Hans and I would like to take a few minutes before we depart to talk a little bit about what we are going to experience today.”
Hans was nodding. “Your seats are all reserved, so it’s not like you have to go early to get good ones. But you are all on the same row. So with seven of you, it won’t be easy for you to talk to each other or ask questions. But there are some things that will help you enjoy the play more. Not that I’m an expert,” he added, “but the last time I was here, I happened to go to lunch with one of the assistant directors of the play, an old schoolmate of mine. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
No one had any objection to that, and they trooped into the house.
8:44 a.m.
Hans raised a hand, and the group quickly quieted. “Okay, quickly, let me give you some trivia about the play. First, as you know, the play was first put on to keep a vow made by the villagers in 1633 when they were spared from the plague, so this will be the thirty-first time the play has been staged.
“Only those who have been born in the village of Oberammergau are allowed to participate, and that doesn’t mean only the actors. It includes the musicians, directors, and stage and scenery people.”
Paula spoke up. “Which irked Inga and me as we grew up, because even though we lived in Unterammergau just a couple of miles down the valley, we were not allowed to participate.”
“That’s right,” Hans said. “Neither were we in Graswang. That’s because only Oberammergau made the vow. So that’s quite a commitment on their part, since there are only about three thousand in the village. It takes about fifteen hundred people to put on the play, and performances run from May to September, five times a week, so that’s a huge block of their time. The play has about one hundred and twenty-five speaking parts, but only about twenty of those are principal roles, such as Jesus, Mary, Peter, John, and so on. The roles of Jesus and Mary are, of course, the most coveted parts, but all of the principal roles are carefully chosen. The actors playing them are expected to live exemplary lives that reflect the values taught by Jesus.”
“But ‘Jesus’ could be a cook, or a wood-carver, or anyone like that?” That was from Emilee.
“That’s right,” Hans answered. “I still remember being startled the day I saw it. As we took the break for the mid-day meal, my friends and I were walking back into the village, and suddenly ‘Jesus’ came riding past us on his bicycle.”
Paula was shocked. “In his costume?”
“No, but we recognized him. Now I understand why he had to go back into the village during the break. He was the owner of one the village’s largest wood-carving shops. But it was a little disconcerting to see the Savior riding a bicycle. Be sure and watch today as you leave the theater. You’ll probably see several of the cast go by.”
Jacob spoke up. “Oh, and here’s another thing. Several months before rehearsals begin, the village announces ‘hair decree’ day.”
“What is that?” Mitch asked.
“It’s the day that the men in the village who will be on stage have to stop shaving and getting their hair cut.”
“Amazing,” Mitch said. “What dedication.”
Hans went on. “The play is officially called the Passionsspiele, or Passion Play. That puzzles some people because today we think of ‘passion’ as meaning love or anger or other strong emotion. But the word originates from the Latin passionen, which means suffering or enduring. So this play portrays only the last week of the Savior’s life, or the week of His suffering and enduring. It starts with His triumphal entry into Jerusalem and ends with His resurrection and ascension.”
“Well,” Paula said in surprise. “I had thought it was about His whole life, and I grew up here.”
“Nope, just one week is all. Okay, now here’s the part I thought you should know. The director told me this is the number-one question that visitors ask after they have seen the play. It has to do with what are called the tableaux vivants, of which there are a dozen spaced throughout the drama.”
“What are they?” Adelia asked. “I’ve never heard of them.”
Emilee spoke up. “Well, I know what the French means. ‘Living pictures.’ We used to do them in my high school. You create a scene on stage like a painting or a mural. In fact, that’s what we did. We tried to depict famous paintings, only they were life sized, with real people in them. The people in them had to remain absolutely motionless while the curtain was up.”
“Ah, yes,” Jacob said. “Now I know what you mean. I saw them done once at the university.”
Wolfie frowned. “You mean the actors that are on stage just suddenly freeze in place?”
“No, no,” Hans said. “The tableaux vivants do not show scenes from the last week of Christ’s life. The action on stage actually stops while the tableaus are presented. But that’s not all that’s weird about them. All of the tableaus depict scenes from the Old Testament.”
“The Old Testament?” Edie blurted. “In the middle of a play about the last week of Christ’s life?”
“Wait,” Emilee said at the same time. “Is that the word that your friend used? ‘Weird’?”
Hans laughed. “No, of course not. And I was just going to say that. As you all know, I don’t consider myself a church-going
man.”
“Only because he never goes to church,” Emilee noted dryly.
Hans shot her a look but went on. “So I’m clearly not the one to try to explain this to you. But my friend said some things that I thought helped explain them, so I asked him to write it down for me.” He reached in his back pocket and took out a piece of paper folded in quarters.
“You have really got me curious now, Hans,” Jacob said.
“Well, then, here goes.” He lifted the paper and began. “‘In content, the tableaux vivants are meant to emphasize important concepts to the audience that the play itself does not convey. And to understand why it is done this way, you must remember that the vast majority of people could not read at the time the play originated, so you had to present abstract concepts in visual form.”
“Oh,” Paula said. “I’ve never thought of it in that way.”
“Does he give an example?” Inga asked.
“He does, actually,” Hans said. “‘These “living pictures” insert a visual image into the play. They are a pause that allows the audience to study what they are seeing and to ponder how each tableau relates to the play.’”
“That’s still not an example,” Inga said.
Hans smiled. “Okay, here are a few examples. ‘Before the play opens, an introductory tableau is presented on stage. It depicts Adam and Eve being cast out of the Garden, the Tree of Life, the cherubim and the flaming sword, and a serpent. This is a reminder to the audience that the reason Christ came to earth and eventually gave His life for us on the cross is—’” Hans stopped and motioned for them to guess.
Mitch gave a soft “Oh,” and then said, “because fallen man can never return to paradise without Christ’s Atonement.”
Hans was impressed. “That’s not exactly how my friend says it, but pretty close. Okay, here’s another example. ‘In a scene depicted in the play, Jesus attempts to win followers prior to His arrest and trial. This is preceded by the “living picture” of Moses descending from Mount Sinai with the tablets of the Ten Commandments and the children of Israel worshipping the golden calf. So you have both Moses and Christ offering the same invitation: “Whoever is on the Lord’s side—come to me”!’”