Ervin Krause - You Will Never See Any God - Stories

When he recovered enough to move again he had Diedrich drive him down to the minister’s house. They were there together, he and the minister, for over an hour, and when Old Schwier came out again he was weeping.

The minister made daily visitations to the house on the hill. He brought his little case along and there was the sacrament of communion there often.

The changes were many then. The old man wept and prayed most of the day, and he called Diedrich in and wanted him to pray, too, but Diedrich only looked at him and hobbled out again.

“I have sinned so much,” the old man wailed. He said he wanted his son to forgive him and for them to love each other. Old Schwier had the minister contact the Red Cross to try and locate his children but the Red Cross could not find any of them. They had probably all changed their names, the minister said.

Old Schwier threw out the housemaid he’d had and he got an elderly woman to do his cooking and cleaning. He took $40,000 and had an organ installed in the church and had a small gold plaque, “In memory of my beloved wife, Hilda,” placed on it. He went to church every Sunday then, and the minister seated him in the front pew and delivered several sermons in succession to God’s forgiveness and love. Schwier sold a couple of farms and gave the money to the church towards a new one they would build in the spring. It was a gift from God, the minister said. There was talk that even the president of the synod would be there to help with the cornerstone. Other things changed, too. Old Schwier lowered the rent on his farms, he sent out fence material and paint and wallpaper without being asked. He had the minister say public prayers for himself and his wife and his children.

I have done such terrible things, he told the minister. I have sinned so terribly. They called Diedrich in and asked about his legs and if he wanted to go to Rochester to the Mayo Clinic to be helped, and Old Schwier said he would spend anything to help his son. Bless you, my child, he said, with love in his eyes, bless you for being with me even when I was terrible and cruel. Diedrich, who had lately taken to chewing tobacco, only spat on the floor.

When they rarely went downtown, Old Schwier tried to be benevolent and kind. He took candy and small coins with him to press on the children he saw. Everyone said he was a wonderful old man. They said he had made a mistake and he knew it and he was really fine now. Only the old-timers would sometimes recall the old Old Schwier, but they were shushed.

In the spring the church was begun with the president of the synod there and Schwier standing between the minister and the president, the old man leaning heavily on two canes. It was to be the most beautiful church in the area, the president said. A month later Schwier sold a couple more farms and gave the money to the school for a new gymnasium. It was to be called Schwier Auditorium over the protests of the generous old man. The Sioux City papers, covering the event, called him a benefactor and philanthropist.

Old Schwier gave to the hospital too, and he felt badly that he could not help more, but the town had already built a new one just after the war.

Gradually he forgot and the town forgot and he was loved and adulated and his kindness was known and his smile was common. Only with the minister did he still sometimes weep and be concerned.

“Has my God forgiven me?” he asked.

“Yes, God can forgive any sin.”

“And my wickedness, too?”

“Yes, and any wickedness — God loves you.”

“Will he take me to Himself?” Schwier asked. He had heard much of the church’s words, as “wickedness” and “to Himself,” and could repeat them.

“If you have fully repented,” the minister said.

“I do repent. I do love, and I feel His love.”

“Then He will take you.”

The time came in the fall. There were three heart attacks in rapid succession and the doctors came and the ministers, too. They did everything they could for him. The minister gave him the last communion, which Old Schwier understood. His mind was clear, the minister said, his sins were washed away. Afterwards Old Schwier called for Diedrich and he had the son read the will. Much went to charity and to the church but the bulk of the large estate went to the children, and Diedrich was to search for the others and if they could not be found within five years, he was to have it all.

“My son,” Old Schwier said when Diedrich had finished reading the will, “come and I will give you my last blessing.”

“You have no right to bless anyone,” Diedrich said.

“My sins are forgiven. I have repented. I am ready to see my God.”

“You will never see any God.”

“My poor child. You don’t believe. But I believe and I am at rest and happy. Come, let us pray together now. I know we cannot be together long.”

“We have never been together.”

“We can be now. My God has forgiven me my sins.”

“What kind of a God is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“A God that let you do what you have done and then let you by because you change your mind at the very last minute.”

“I have seen my error.”

“No one could forgive you.”

“Everyone has forgiven. The people who hated me love me now.”

“Only because you have money.”

“God has forgiven me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I believe.”

“And I believe he has not. He is not so easily fooled as the stupid people of this town.”

“But he has, don’t you see? I have repented, and he has forgiven me.”

“I haven’t forgiven you, father, and neither have any of my brothers and sisters. We will never forgive you.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” the father wailed, and the tears ran down his ashen, lined cheeks.

“How can God forgive you if we do not? What kind of a God is that?” Diedrich almost smiled then.

“I believe. I do believe. He has forgiven.”

“Then we should all do what you have done and wait until God, if there is such a thing, comes to us out of the sky.”

“Don’t test me now, not now.”

“You could not live long enough to be forgiven, father. Forgiveness cannot come in the last second of eighty evil years.”

“There is no hope then…”

“For you there isn’t.”

“Get away from me. Get away.”

“Are you getting angry now, father? Anger may kill you.”

“I want to see the reverend. Let me see him.”

“Your sins are forgiven, you said.”

“They are. They are all washed away. I believe. I believe. I have repented.”

“Then why do you want to see the reverend? Are you still doubtful? Are you worried?”

“No! I know my God wants me. He loves me.”

“Good. Then die, father, before he remembers all you have done and changes his fickle mind.”

“You devil!” the father cried. “Go, you devil!”

“In a moment. I have much time.”

“I do not bless you. I take it back. Goddamn you!” The father sat bolt upright, shrieking and panting, his voice strained and loud. “Goddamn!” His eyes bulged, his face flushed scarlet and became ashen, and his voice choked on his scarlet phlegm. “Goddamn!” His voice weakened, and the door opened and the others came in, the doctors and the minister. “God… God… God.” Old Schwier choked and he reeled, staring at a place above Diedrich’s head. They caught him then and the needles came out, but it was too late. Old Rudolph Schwier was dead.

“He was crying ‘God, God!’” one of the doctors said, his voice hushed and a little awed.

“It’s as if he had seen Him,” the minister said. “He died seeing the God of his forgiveness.”

“Yes,” Diedrich said quietly, folding his hands when the minister began to pray.