Where the Bells Are(Elaine Faber) WHERE THE BELLS ARE
By Elaine Faber

I huddled beneath the store awning and looked up the narrow street, as rivers of water poured over the cobbled stones, filling the gutters and threatening to overflow onto the sidewalk. So much water made me wonder if a dam had burst and the street had become the path of least resistance. Lightening flashed in the dark gray sky behind the church steeples across the street. Thunder clapped above my head.

The twin bells in the church tower clanged and echoed across the countryside for a full ten minutes. As I listened, my imagination ran wild. Had war been declared? Had the President been shot? Did Austria even have a President? What possible reason was the cause of their endless ringing?

The bells rang, the thunder rumbled and the lightening flashed. I covered my ears and shut my eyes, my heart pounding. Why should a simple storm make me feel so alone and vulnerable?

The rain poured off the awning. I huddled closer to the wall. Should I dash across the street through the rain to the church or go back up the sidewalk to the Sweet Shop? With the rain pelting down and thunder rolling overhead, I hesitated to make a decision. Perhaps I should remain where I was and wait it out.

What was I even doing in this small Austrian town? It was only a few weeks ago, I had talked to Grandfather, telling him about my upcoming Europe vacation. Unexpectedly, he began to share his World War II experiences in Germany.

“During World War II,” he said, “I carried a rifle and a backpack, slept in cold wet ditches and often was engaged in hand to hand combat with enemy soldiers. I killed men and nearly died many times. On one particular night, my company was engaged in a horrible battle. It has caused my nightmares for years. I could see the faces of the enemy and smell his sweat. I had to kill him before he killed me.

“The next morning, I woke up with a headache, lying on the battlefield. My helmet had a bullet clean through it. My company was gone. They left me there, thinking I was dead. Some of my companions lay dead beside me, along with some of the German lads.

“I heard a groan coming from the middle of their twisted bodies. I could see one of them was still alive. A young German soldier lay bleeding on the ground with a serious leg wound. He was just a kid, about my age.”

Grandfather paused in his story and seemed to be far away, remembering that terrible day.

“Go on, what happened next, Grandfather?” I asked.

“What? Oh yes.... When he realized I wasn’t going to kill him, he spoke to me in broken English. ‘Have you water? Please help me.’”

“Somehow, I got him to some shelter under an overturned truck, dressed his wound and gave him food and water. He said his name was Hans Gruber. We spent the next 24 hours under the truck, talking about our families, our dreams, our plans for after the war, anything except guns, death or politics. We’d both seen enough killing.

“Finally, his fever broke. He couldn’t walk so I left him with food and water, hoping that a German patrol would come along and find him. I figured I’d never see him again.

“Well, after the war, I married Grandma and we started a family.

“Four years later, in 1949, I got a barely legible scrawled letter from Hans Gruber. He said he wanted to repay me for saving his life. He said I should come back to Europe and find the “treasure” and that was my repayment. The enclosed message was all I needed.”

Grandfather pulled a faded letter from the top dresser drawer and read to me.

“The key to the treasure is in Hoptgarten.
Press the feet of the babe beneath the King,
Hidden in the place where the storm clouds are
Frightened away by the ring….”

“I don’t know what it means, but I kept the letter. I thought some day I’d go back to Austria and see if I could locate Hans. But you know how that goes. I’m too old now. I’m never going back.”

He handed the letter to me. “But you’re going. You take the letter. Find Hoptgarten. If you find the treasure, make a memorial for two young men who found friendship in the middle of a battlefield.”

On the day I last saw Grandfather, I promised I would look for Hans Gruber or his family and tell him that Grandfather had always thought of him kindly.

I located Hoptgarten on the map in Austria and changed my plans to include a quick stop in the tiny village. I came in search of a friend and a treasure, or more likely, Grandfather’s imaginary dream.

Hopfgarten was a tiny village tucked away in a valley beneath two mountains. I rented a lovely pension high on the hill overlooking the town. From my window, the train looked like a toy threading its way through the make believe town far below. I could see the church with twin towers in the center of town. Cows with bells around their necks drifted in and out of the mist. Tinkling bells echoed from hillside to hillside, as they moved across the meadows. I reveled in the peacefulness, the beauty, the mists drifting across green hillsides beneath the blue sky. The pressures of my life lifted from my shoulders as I looked at the scene below.

Work demands, Grandfather’s impending death, financial concerns, were pushed from my mind. My time in this wonderland was limited, however, and I knew I must find Hans Gruber and solve the mystery of the poem.

I slept fitfully that first night, finding it hard to forget the words on the poem. I had “found Hopfgarten,” as the first line had said. And what about the next line, “touch the feet of the babe beneath the king.” What did that mean? There were enough clouds above the valley to suggest this was the place where “the storm clouds would be frightened away by the ring.” But what ring?

The next morning, I visited the County Court House. Hans Gruber was a common name in Austria, much like “John Smith” in America, so it was difficult to make much progress. The elderly clerk questioned me rather sharply regarding my need for this information.

“I’m looking for a man named Hans Gruber or his family. He would have been a young soldier during World War II. I don’t know if he’s still alive or not. I believe he lived somewhere near here.”

“Are you friend?” the clerk questioned.

“No, I’m a tourist. My grandfather met him during the war and asked me to look him up.”

“Why do you seek him or his family? What business with them have you?”

‘My business is personal. May I have the address, please?”

He continued to ask questions, but I told him as little as possible and tried to evade the bulk of his questions. He gave me a list of names and addresses of Gruber families who were located within a 50-mile radius of the County Court House. I decided I would start with the closest and work my way outwards.

The first name on the list was Father Johan Gruber, the parish priest at the local church. Thinking that he might know many of the valley families, I walked through the streets past the little shops toward the church. The shops looked deserted and I was surprised to learn they closed at noon on Saturday and all day Sunday. Such a waste of good shopping time!

I entered the church through the heavy double doors. The interior was breathtaking. God surrounded by his saints was painted in brilliant colors on the ceiling. Statues of the Christ Child, Mary, Joseph and the angels from heaven were covered in gold. The altar was adorned with flowers and burning candles. It was incredible to stand in the midst of such wonders.

A young man approached me. He said his name was Kurt and he worked at the church, cleaning and gardening and generally keeping an eye on things. Father Gruber was expected to return soon. We sat in the back of the empty church. As we talked, the thunder rumbled and a few flashes of lightening lit the stained glass windows. The church bells began to chime. Kurt pointed me toward the graveyard behind the church and returned to his duties.

It was a lovely place, with carved marble tombstones dating from the 1700’s. Many of the headstones had pictures of the deceased embedded in little frames in the stone. Their costumes and hairstyles reflected the years in which they had lived. The plots were pruned, trimmed and watered, covered with begonias, geraniums, and ivy, kept as though a dear loved one had passed only recently, not 200 years ago. A moss-covered fence surrounded many of the graves. At the head, a black iron cross contrasted with the gleaming marble headstones. Great entertwined iron circles covered the top of the entrance gate. The graveyard was a beautiful geometric garden of flowers and iron art. It spoke more of love and beauty than death. I thought of Grandfather at home and wished that his final resting-place could be so lovely.

I walked among the graves, reading the names and dates. There were family graves with the names of father, mother and children under one headstone. Some stones noted the names of multiple children. My heart went out to the mother of long ago who lost five babies within eight years, all under the age of two.

While reading the gravestone of a baby, I remembered the words of the poem, ”press the feet of the babe beneath the king.” Was the poem referring to the graveyard? Perhaps the intertwined rings over the gate of the entrance was the “ring” that “frightened away the storm clouds.” Could it be that simple? Could the treasure be buried here in the graveyard, in the headstone of a baby buried beneath a “King?”

I began to search for the grave of a King or Royal or Regal. Oh, what was the word for king in German? How I wished I could speak the language! I ran my hands over the headstone of a baby’s grave. I must be right. The treasure was here, very near, perhaps on a gravestone within my sight. How many babies are buried here? I would have to run my hands over each baby’s grave. It was a daunting task.

The sky continued to darken, the thunder rolled and lightening flashed across the sky. The bells were still ringing and a sudden downpour drove me to my feet, my face dripping. I knew I had to temporarily abandon my project and seek shelter from the storm. Finding the side door of the church locked, I ran through the graveyard, through the iron gate, down the stone stairway, and sought shelter under a fairly large awning on the store across the street.

As the storm raged, the wind blew, and the bells continued clanging. The thunder and lightening rumbled and flashed. I felt alone, as if I had been transported from my world into some sort of twilight world. I imagined myself the heroine in a mystery movie. All I needed now was a spy, trying to wrench “my secret” from me. It suddenly occurred to me that I was alone in a strange “other world,” that I did have a secret and was searching for a lost treasure. I shuddered in my cold wet jacket.

Was it my imagination or was a man watching me across the street, standing in a doorway, holding a newspaper over his head? Surely, he was just another unsuspecting tourist caught in a sudden summer storm. He looked my way and then quickly turned his head and huddled in the doorway. A chill passed through me. Was it cold or fear? It gave me the incentive to make a decision.

The rain pelted down as I ran down the street through the puddles to the warmth and safety of the Sweet Shop. People sat at tables drinking coffee and eating desserts. I would be safe in this place. The customers didn’t seem concerned about the lightening, thunder or rain that turned into slushy white hail, pounding the wet pavement.

I ordered coffee and a dessert and was seated at a table with another young woman. She smiled and seemed not to mind my company. “Hello. You are tourist?”

“Yes, I’m visiting from America,” I said.

“You travel alone, not with friend?”

“No, I’m here alone, just admiring your beautiful country. Though I must say, I’m amazed at the storm outside. Is this usual? Aren’t you afraid?”

“Nein. I not afraid. It will soon pass. The bells will soon frighten away the clouds and it will be soon sunshine again,” she explained.

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be working. It has been storming for half an hour.”

“Oh, yes. It working fine now. But, the next village also ring their bells, and clouds confused. Go there, hear the bells, come back again. Soon they will go away, not come back so soon.”

I sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on this quaint but sincere belief in the magical power of bells, when suddenly I felt goosebumps from my head to my toes. Other words echoed through my brain. “…contained in the place where the storm clouds are frightened away by the ring.” Not a ring of gold, not a wrought iron ring on the entrance to graveyard, but the ring of the church bells from the bell tower! The treasure was not in the graveyard on a baby’s grave, it was in the church, beneath the bells that were frightening away the clouds causing such havoc in the heavens. It all made sense. The Babe and the King would be the Christ Child and his heavenly father, God.

“Oh, it was so nice to meet you, but I must go. Good-bye,” I exclaimed.

In my excitement, I nearly toppled the table. I ran through the rain back up the street to the church. Surely, that’s where I would find the treasure!

I hurried toward my goal with my heart pounding, What could it be? What would I do when I found it? How could I take a treasure from the church if I did find it? A sobering thought. The questions would be answered when the treasure was in my hands.

I entered the quiet church, turning toward the right side of the altar, forcing myself to be calm and think clearly.

High above the pews on the right side of the church were beautiful stained glass windows depicting brilliantly colored biblical scenes. Beneath the windows was a row of pictures of young men in uniforms. Were these the war dead of the community? I looked into the eternally young faces of men who should be old men now. My heart skipped a beat, as there, in the middle, was a young blond soldier. The nameplate beneath his picture read “Hans Gruber, 1912 – 1949.” He must be the same Hans Gruber. But Hans was not one of the honored men killed in the war. He had lived beyond the Armistice and had sent the note to Grandfather in…1949? Four years after the war had ended. What could it all mean?

Near the front of the church was a stunningly beautiful statue of the Christ Child. Was this the Babe I sought? I touched the feet of the babe, ran my hands over the base of the statue... nothing happened.

I moved on past the altar toward the left side of the church and there, shockingly, sat a coffin made of glass on all sides. It allowed full view of a mummified body, wearing a gown of shining satin trimmed with gold threads. On his head, he wore a jeweled crown. Above the mummy was a plaque that stated in German, “A Christian Martyr.” Beneath the glass coffin was a carved figurine about the size of a child’s doll, a baby, most likely depicting the Christ Child. “Touch the feet of the babe who lies beneath the king…”

This, then, must be the “king” in the poem and this, surely, was the “babe who lies beneath the king.” I reached for the feet of the babe. As I touched its feet, a tiny panel opened in the altar below. Inside this hidden compartment was a rusty, gold key attached to a faded piece of paper with the name of a Swiss bank and numbered lockbox.

“The key to the treasure….” My hands shook as I reached for the key, and grasping it, turned quickly, only to come face to face with the man who had huddled across the street during the rain, my imaginary spy. I recognized the elderly County Clerk. He held a pistol pointed toward my heart. He must have guessed from my questions that I knew something about the treasure. He had followed me to see if I might lead him to it. Obviously, he, too, had something to do with this “treasure.”

I screamed and tried to run, but he quickly grabbed my throat and squeezed. He hoped that would make me drop the key or perhaps he just intended to kill me and take the key. There would be no witnesses to tell the tale.

I tried to pry his hands from my throat but was hampered by my tight grip on the key. The room began to spin and darken and the faces of the Virgin and the Child blurred together. I felt myself tumbling into a tunnel of swirling darkness. My last conscious thoughts were regret that I had failed to keep my promise to Grandfather. I had found the treasure, only to lose it and, perhaps now, I would lose my life as well.

From somewhere in the distance, I heard voices calling my name. My throat hurt. Kurt and the priest had returned to find me slumped on the floor. The clerk was gone, but I still had the key clutched in my hands. The clerk must have heard them coming and fled as they came in the door.

Later, Kurt and the priest and I sat on the patio of the priest’s residence, drinking strong black coffee. The priest, Hans Gruber’s brother, shared the background to the mystery.

After the war, Hans drove an armored truck in a town near Hopfgarten. One day, Hans and his partner disappeared along with the truck and a large amount of gold. The partner was caught and sent to prison but Hans and the gold were not found. Several years later, Hans sneaked into town to visit his brother. The police learned he was there and surrounded the church. A terrible gun battle ensued. Father Gruber eventually convinced him to give himself up.

While Hans was in the church, he hid the key in the altar and wrote the letter to Grandfather. Father Gruber had mailed the letter he found in the church, not knowing where it came from or what it contained. Hans was killed in a prison riot several months later. The key had remained hidden in the altar and would never have been found if I had not come to Hopfgarten. Hans’s letter to Grandfather was a final communication from a grateful young man who did not expect to get out of the church alive. The gold remained locked away in a Swiss bank numbered lock box for 60 years.

In 1959, Han’s partner was released from prison and became Hopfgarten’s County Clerk. He didn’t know where Hans had hidden the money but always hoped that some day he might find it. He never realized the key to the treasure was in the church all the time.

The County Clerk was apprehended and charged with attempted murder and was once again incarcerated. The gold from the lock box was returned to the bank, it’s value increased ten fold over the past 60 years. Of course, I was given a sizeable finder’s fee for returning the gold.

The money has allowed me to remain in Austria where I bought a small cottage with a beautiful garden where a fountain bubbles in memory of two young men, who in the midst of war, became friends. I have enough money to keep me for many years to come. There is also money so Austrian and American students may have an opportunity to meet and become friends. Perhaps one day, I’ll write a book about Grandfather and Hans and my adventures in retrieving their treasure.

Now I have time to sit in my garden and look across the valley and the hills. I draw strength from their beauty and revel in the bells that drive the storm clouds from my soul. Throughout the day, one hears the church bells announcing services.

Some days, they ring to drive away the storm clouds. Perhaps it doesn’t work every time, but as the sound of the bells resound from the peak of one mountain top to another, the clouds scramble from village to village in search of a peaceful valley where they can hang together in silence. Finally, in their frantic search, the clouds drift onto the hillsides where only the cow’s bells can be heard as they amble through the meadows and eventually disappear into the mist.

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