Elizabeth Dusold
St. Faustina and St. Venantius Writing Groups
Fr. Stephen Neuhaus crossed the lawn from the parish hall to the rectory, exhausted from a full day of meetings about support for America’s war effort. The priest’s full-length black cassock had trapped the July heat, soaking his shirt in sweat. He had arrived in Kentucky five years ago from Germany, but he hadn’t yet adapted to the sweltering summers.
A flash of white caught Fr. Stephen’s eye as he walked up the steps to the porch. He crossed the porch and read a large white placard nailed to the front door:
IN KENTON COUNTY
AMERICANS WILL NOT
OTHERS MUST NOT
1st Circulate German Language Newspapers.
2nd Subscribe for Them.
3rd Or Read Them.
4th Or Have Them in Possession.
5th Or Advertise in Them.
6th Or Buy from Those who Advertise in ThemOne Country – One Allegiance
One Language
Beginning August 1, 1918, the C. P. L. asks Compliance with these Suggestions.VERBUM SAP
Fr. Stephen ripped the placard from its nail. He shook his head at the Latin, “Verbum Sap,” wondering how such a hateful message could be “a word to the wise.” He put his shoulder to the front door, which was swelled tight from the humidity, and shoved it open. With a sigh, he placed the torn placard on the table in the hall and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He removed his cassock and Roman collar, as well as his sweat-soaked shirt, and donned a fresh black shirt from the closet, grateful to leave his collar open. Although the window stood open, no breeze stirred. The humid air hung over the room like a pall.
Fr. Stephen returned downstairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper had left a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in the ice box for his supper and the Kentucky Herald’s evening edition on the table. He poured himself a glass of milk and sat down. After saying a simple grace over his meal, he scanned the headlines. The lead article reported that over fifteen thousand people had attended the Citizens Patriotic League’s Fourth of July. The front-page photo showed Commonwealth Attorney Paul Blake presiding over the rally, his fist raised in the air. The League had posted placards throughout the city of Covington and delivered them personally to the staff at the Volksblatt and Freie Presse, the popular German-language newspapers. So, we aren’t alone in getting a warning, he thought.
Anti-German sentiment had continued to build since America had declared war on Germany last year. Fr. Stephen and some of the men in the parish had been required to register as “enemy aliens.” Parishioners had told the priest that their shops had been vandalized. Others had reported being harassed and beaten by members of the League. The unrest weighed heavily on the priest, and he feared for the safety of his flock of German immigrants and their descendants.
As he ate his supper, Fr. Stephen reflected on the events of the day. This morning, the ladies of the parish Red Cross Society had been knitting in the parish hall. God bless them for making socks and scarves in this heat, he thought. The nuns had sought his approval of a pen pal project, suggesting that the school children could write letters to the young men from the parish who had enlisted in the US Army. The Ladies Sodality had brought him their plans for an ice cream social on Bastille Day, following President Wilson’s request that all Americans honor the French holiday this year. Tonight he had met with the Finance Committee to hear their plans for another Liberty Bond fundraiser. Fr. Stephen had even pledged to buy a bond himself. Will any of this convince the League of our loyalty to America? he wondered.
A loud banging on the front door interrupted Fr. Stephen’s thoughts. He moved to the parlor where he could see through the front window. Several men stood on the porch and a dozen more gathered on the lawn. In the darkness he did not recognize any of them. He tugged the door open about six inches and poked his head out. Before the priest could speak, an angry voice demanded, “Fr. Stephen Neuhaus?” A hand reached in and grabbed his shirt front.
The priest braced himself against the doorframe to resist, but two men reached for his arms and another man dragged him onto the porch. A tall man stepped forward. Fr. Stephen recognized Paul Blake from the photo in the newspaper, his stiff, white collar and handlebar mustache oblivious to the heat. Blake jabbed his finger into Fr. Stephen’s chest. “Where is the placard that was posted here this morning? Those placards are not to be defaced or removed.”
“You have no authority to post that placard,” Fr. Stephen said in his German-accented English. “This is the property of the Catholic Church.”
“The Citizens Patriotic League has all the authority it needs to weed out you Hun lovers,” Blake sneered. “The League is enforcing President Wilson’s sedition laws. We know you preach in German. No doubt you’re whipping up sentiment for the Kaiser.”
“My older parishioners understand the gospel better when they hear it in German. We are preaching the good news, not anything about the war.”
“We know your kind. Hiding behind the church, but undermining the American war effort,” Blake said. The men shouted their assent and crowded in, some spitting on the priest.
“Many of the young men of our parish are in France right now, fighting for this country,” Fr. Stephen protested. “Some of these families came from Alsace, the very part of France the Germans conquered less than fifty years ago. They hate German militarism as much as you do.”
Cries of “Hun lover,” “traitor,” and other slurs drowned out the priest’s words. Two men grabbed Fr. Stephen and dragged him down the steps into the yard. The men circled closer, hitting and kicking Fr. Stephen. The priest cried out, “Aren’t you all members of other Christian churches in town? Don’t we all worship the same Jesus Christ? We are all called to be peacemakers.”
The priest’s words infuriated the mob. How dare this papist question their faith! One of the men punched Fr. Stephen in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to fall to his knees. Another man grabbed a large stone from the garden border and heaved it at the priest. The stone gashed Fr. Stephen’s forehead, and blood flowed towards his eyes. More men picked up stones and hurled them at the priest. Fr. Stephen raised his arms, shielding his head. Someone found a shovel in the garden and began to beat him.
Fr. Stephen heard his ribs crack and his breath came in ragged gulps. Pain engulfed him. He struggled to hold up his head. Blood obscured his vision. “Please stop,” he begged. “Jesus, save me.”
The vigilantes continued to beat and kick the priest. With his strength failing, Fr. Stephen raised his eyes to heaven and said, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” With this prayer, the priest lost consciousness and slumped to the ground.
“We don’t need your prayers, you German scum,” someone yelled. The blows from fists, boots, and rocks landed unceasingly on the motionless form on the ground.
Paul Blake stood on the porch, apart from the chaos in the yard. He unrolled another copy of the placard and fixed it on the nail in the rectory door. Blake turned and addressed the crowd. “OK, men, I think our message has been delivered. I’ll see you at our next League meeting.”
As the crowd dispersed, walking in groups of two or three towards their homes, one of the men came up to Blake. “Mr. Blake,” the man said, wringing his hands, “I think the priest is dead.”
“One less Hun to worry about,” Blake replied. “Leave him there as an example to the rest of them.” Blake stepped off the porch, satisfied with the evening’s work. As he turned to walk home, he considered his next move.