Fiction

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BY COMMENTING
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE As A Member OR Visitor
Message Writer
Hire Writer
Report Article

Track Writer

Add to Favorites

by Stanislav Dema
01/18/26
Free to Share
Author requests article critique

Chapter 3. Two Secrets

Mood:

Delirious? - Obsession

The history of Lustdorf began with the sea. With the wind roaming between the hills, and the steppe where nothing grew but field grasses. The land here was fertile, but wild. And then one day, people came who knew how to force the abandoned earth to yield a harvest.

In the early nineteenth century, when in the German lands wars were replaced by famine, and famine by inflation, many families sought a better life. And they found the answer in the southern reaches of the Rusyn Hetmanate. The wind from the sea called them here; the manifesto of the Supreme Rada beckoned: land, freedom, self-government, thirty years without taxes. Having received positive experience from the colonization of former Ottoman lands, the policy was continued by inviting the best of those who wanted to work on the land.

Thus, on the seashore, southwest of Odesa, appeared Lustdorf — "The Merry Village." The name seemed coined in jest, but it stuck. Locals claimed: at first, it was Kaiserheim, until an important gentleman from Odesa arrived — rumored to be Richelieu himself — and suggested changing the name to something more life-affirming. Saying, it will be merry — and it should sound accordingly.

Merry, truth be told, it was not always. In the first years, the settlers lived in dugouts and huts warmed not by stoves, but by hope. There were no conveniences. Odesa was half a day's journey away. Post — none. Diseases — were present. Help — was not. But they did not complain. They built houses, planted vineyards, and taught children.

They lived strictly — according to a charter they defined themselves. In every yard, order reigned as in a train schedule: the elder — the Schulze — watched over everything, from morality to the size of the porch. Missed the service — a fine. Drunkenness — community service. Anyone who dreamed of living life "to no purpose" ended up on the list of idlers. But virtuous owners were entered into another — honorary — list, which was read before the entire community.

When the electric tram was first launched in Odesa, not to the center, but specifically here, to Lustdorf, it was taken as a sign. No joke — the first rural area in the Hetmanate with an electric tram. Since then, the colony became a resort. Villas, sanatoriums, and even a telegraph station appeared. But Lustdorf was most famous not for this. It was respected because here people knew how to live — the German way: with restraint, thoroughness, and faith.

That is why a man named Fritz Steinmeier arrived here once.

That was almost ten years ago. He arrived in Lustdorf as a settler from Lithuania. He brought documents, wine yeast, a couple of crates of dishes, and a small library in German. At the border, no one argued with him — too many people were coming south then in search of a better share.

He settled in a house he bought from the community. He started simple: worked in the field, repaired wine presses, showed neighbors how to make convenient supports for the vines. He was accepted quickly: honest, hardworking, always ready to help.

Then he began coming to the Kirk on Sundays. Not for show — for real. For Fritz truly, sincerely believed — in this, he did not need to play a role. He listened, asked questions, and participated in the choir. He read Bible stories aloud to children on the lawn in front of the temple. And then he suggested — quietly, without pathos — organizing a summer camp for boys in the fields: bonfires, songs, hikes, so that the children would learn friendship, responsibility, and love for God. Wie ein deutscher Junge wächst — that’s what he called it.

Soon he began to be called “Pan Fritz” — a polite form of address — not only in the wineries but also in the prayer house. The Pastor — an elderly man with kind eyes and a tired face — often visited him.

And on one such evening, when a simple dish of potatoes, roasted chicken, and a carafe of red wine stood on the table, a conversation began. Deep. Heavy.

"Tell me, Brother Fritz," the Pastor twirled a silver fork in his fingers, "you are interested in the prophets, aren't you? Jeremiah. Isaiah. You read the Old Testament more and more, right?"

"Right," nodded Fritz. "Because one cannot understand the New without hearing the voice of the Old. It is not abolished. It is the root."

The Pastor sighed quietly:

"In our tradition, we understand that the Church is the new Israel. That the former people rejected the Messiah. That now the Covenant is with us."

Fritz set aside his cup. He glanced out the window — the evening sun was dyeing the sky the color of wine.

"And what if they didn't reject, but didn't recognize?" he asked. "What if it was foretold? 'They shall look upon Me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him.' That is from Zechariah. If God is faithful — how can He reject His people? He is not a man that He should betray."

The Pastor shuddered and fell silent. Suddenly, a shadow fell upon his face.

"Abraham was promised: 'I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee.' These are not words to be forgotten."

"But Paul says..."

"Paul," Fritz interrupted softly, "also says: 'They are beloved for the fathers' sakes.' He did not renounce them. We are a wild olive shoot, grafted into the tree. But if the root is holy, so are the branches."

Silence hung in the room. Only the crickets chirped outside the window, and a drop tapped in the drainpipe.

The Pastor did not argue. He only nodded.

"I hadn't thought about it that way. It was always... otherwise."

"Maybe that is why that hatred came to Europe, because it forgot about this," said Fritz quietly. "Luther began with hope — and ended with curses. And therein lay his tragedy. But we can choose another path."

"Which one?"

"To love those whom God loves. Even if they do not understand. Yet."

They sat in silence. And then they drank to Abraham. And in the Pastor's heart, a small, flickering light of hope was kindled. Hope for peace with his conscience.

Pastor Gottfried Ebel was a man of his word and honor. He had served in Lustdorf for twenty-seven years — ever since he was sent from Württemberg, right after seminary. He built the Kirk here, raised two daughters, and buried his wife. To the best of his ability, he helped the orphanage and tended the grapevine he had planted by his house. He was loved — but not for strength, rather for meekness and kindness.

But no one knew that Pastor Ebel carried a secret in his heart that had burned him for many years, like a tiny ember placed in the inner pocket of a frock coat. No one saw it — but it brought constant, intense pain.

When Gottfried Ebel was still a young man, his heart burned. He did not know what it meant to doubt, did not know the path of humility and pain. He was full of youthful zeal and was sure that for him, as a future pastor, there was nothing more important than faith, than serving God. His life was to be pure, like an untouched sheet, and he gave it to service because he was sure — he was chosen.

From childhood, Gottfried was consumed by the Holy Scripture. His father, a strict Lutheran, always said: "Thank God there is a Book in the house." He taught his son that there is only one truth, and that a man's entire life comes down to serving Christ. But despite his youth, Gottfried sought depth. He strove not just to perform the ritual, but to understand the philosophy, to be imbued with every word, every letter of the Scripture. He entered the seminary in an ancient city where buildings were witnesses to the Reformation, and professors spoke quietly and sternly.

At the university, he was captivated by the works of Martin Luther. These ideals, his revolutionary views on the Church, on salvation, and on how a true Christian should live, seized Gottfried. He read his treatises, memorized his words. But there was one part of Luther's philosophy that overshadowed everything else: his attitude toward the Jews.

Luther, that great reformer, in his later works poured out wrath upon the Jews, claiming they were enemies of God. He wrote:

"Their synagogues and schools should be set on fire, their homes destroyed, and they should be persecuted so that they can no longer harm Christian society."

Gottfried, still young and passionate, did not see a warning in these words. He saw in them a call to action.

So, together with several comrades from the seminary, he organized a society they called Eiferer des Neuen Bundes — Zealots of the New Covenant. They gathered in the evenings in the basement library, discussed the purity of faith, wrote leaflets, and distributed them secretly to parishes. In their pamphlets, they claimed that the Jewish presence was an ulcer on the body of Christianity, and that true Christians must eradicate it.

In a house on the other side of the street, where Gottfried rented a room, lived a baker named Hans Beckmann. A quiet, benevolent man, he often shared fresh bread and warm pies with the young, hungry seminarian. When Gottfried came home late, Hans sometimes treated him to a mug of hot milk. They talked about the weather, about life, sometimes — about God. Gottfried did not know who Hans really was. To him, he was just a kind neighbor.

But one day, everything changed.

It was Holy Week. The room was stuffy, and Gottfried opened the window. Quiet voices were heard outside. He wanted to close the shutters but froze, hearing Hans speak to his neighbors upstairs:

"You must run. Tomorrow night there will be a pogrom. I heard them preparing. You were betrayed. I cannot help in any way, but run. Leave today."

The voice was anxious but resolute. Gottfried recoiled. Everything inside him seethed. Here it is — proof. Hans is an accomplice. He helps Jews.

He knew that Hans's neighbors were a family with Jewish roots. He knew that an "action of cleansing" was to take place tomorrow. And now it became clear: Hans was a traitor to Christ.

Gottfried did not hesitate. He ran to his comrades from the brotherhood. He said that Jews were hiding in the house on the corner, and the baker was shielding them. He spoke quickly, with conviction, and that strange flame burned in his eyes, which he would later remember with horror.

The next morning, a crowd gathered at the house. Someone brought boards, someone — torches. Gottfried stayed to the side. He did not shout. He did not throw stones. But when the men took off their frock coats, preparing to go for more wood, they asked him to guard the clothes.

He remained alone, by the pile of clothes. And in that moment, something cracked inside him. He remembered from Acts:

"And the witnesses laid down their clothes at a young man's feet, whose name was Saul…"

When the fire started, the shutters were torn off, and Hans appeared in the opening of the upper window. He looked straight at Gottfried. Long. Quietly. Without fear. Without hatred. In that look, there was only compassion and sorrow. Sorrow for the man who had betrayed.

Then the floors collapsed. Gottfried left without saying a word to anyone. And he never remembered it again. At least — aloud.

Years passed. Gottfried became a pastor. He was sent to Lustdorf — to the south, to a small German settlement near Odesa. There he became a model of meekness and piety.

There he also befriended Fritz Steinmeier.

Life went on as usual. The colony flourished. Every Sunday, Gottfried delivered fiery sermons about God's mercy, love, and repentance — that one must love God and neighbor, and this is the fulfillment of all commandments.

But every Easter, when he spoke the words of Christ: "Woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed," his voice trembled. He wept, and the parishioners thought the pastor was experiencing the Savior's suffering particularly acutely. They whispered: what a holy and kind man our pastor is; evidently, during the sermon, he sees the face of the crucified Christ before him.

But Gottfried knew: he did not see Christ. He saw Hans standing in the flames. With the same look. With the same silent love.

He couldn't sleep. Couldn't read the Scripture without feeling like he was being torn apart. He knew he had done something terrible. But on the other hand — he did it in the name of God. Before, he was sure. He did not hesitate. And now — he doubted. Maybe he had done everything wrong?

He never told anyone about this. It was a dark well in his soul, reaching down to the underworld. He simply became more silent. In the Kirk, he continued to preach as before: about Jesus, about redemption, about mercy. But the Old Testament, which he used to perceive as a shadow of the New, began to sound different. The prophets began to come to him in dreams. He read their lines — and heard a living voice in them. Ancient. Native. As if addressed not to a crowd, but personally to him.

A week after that conversation, he visited Fritz again. Without warning, with a basket of fruit in his hands.

"You spoke of Zechariah." The Pastor sat down, carefully placing the Bible on the table. "I reread the ninth chapter. And the twelfth. It really is... there."

"It was not I who spoke," answered Fritz. "It was spoken long before us."

"Yes. But you reminded me." He fell silent. "We taught that we are the New Israel. That the Church replaced the Jews. That God's plan is now with us. And they... fell away and are cursed. And yet..."

He raised his eyes.

"How can one believe in the faithfulness of God — and at the same time teach that He rejected those whom He Himself called His own?"

Fritz nodded. He had been waiting for this.

"It says in the prophets: 'A remnant shall be saved.' This is not about you and me, Gottfried. This is about those who have not yet understood. But will understand."

"But they crucified Him!" The Pastor cried out, as if everything he had been taught since youth flared up in him.

"We all crucified. Everyone. Not they — we, by our sins. And if He asked: 'Father, forgive them,' then who are we not to forgive?"

"Do you think they will turn?"

"I know." Fritz spoke quietly. "It is written: 'They shall look upon Me whom they have pierced... and they shall mourn for Him, as one mourneth for his only son.' This is not wrath. This is love. Return. Not a curse, but forgiveness and acceptance — like lost children."

The Pastor sat for a long time. Then he slowly rose and walked to the window. Behind the glass, the garden rustled. The branches whispered like pages of old Holy Scripture.

"I think... I need to reread everything anew."

"Do not rush," said Fritz. "Do it not for argument, but for truth."

From that day on, Gottfried Ebel changed. He began to seclude himself longer with the Bible. He wrote in his notebook:

"If God rejected Israel — who am I to hope? But if He is faithful to them — He is faithful to me too. That means there is hope."

A year later, his sermons became different. Softer — and deeper. He no longer spoke of how the Church came instead, but how it came together. That God has not one path, but one design. And this design is not against Israel, but through it.

People in Lustdorf did not notice the changes at first. But one day, instead of the usual sermon, he read a psalm in Hebrew. And when an old Jewish watchmaker sitting in the back row began to weep — the pastor stepped out from behind the pulpit and sat next to him.

And Steinmeier watched and remained silent. Because he knew: sometimes a word sown in the soul does not sprout immediately. But if it is true — it will not perish.

And yet, despite this path, pain remained inside Gottfried. Something did not let him go. He still felt guilt. Still did not know if he could be fully forgiven.

Until one night, reading Acts and stumbling upon the words: "And Saul was consenting unto his death…" he got up, threw on a cloak, and walked — barefoot, through the vineyards — to Steinmeier.

He knocked.

"Fritz..." his voice trembled. "Help me. I... I am dying. Spiritually. God has rejected me. I betrayed. I am worse than Judas."

He told everything. Without holding back. About Hans. About how he cared for him. About how he heard his words — and betrayed him. How he sat by the pile of clothes. How he later became a preacher. How every year he saw the same eyes.

Fritz did not judge. He listened. And then he said:

"If you repent. If you change. God will forgive you."

"I preached repentance for so many years..." whispered Gottfried. "And now I understand that I didn't know what it was."

They prayed together. Long. Quietly. The words came from the very heart.

And that night, for the first time in many years, Gottfried fell asleep with a clear conscience.

Since then, he became different. He began to speak of God's faithfulness. That the Jews are the people of the Covenant. That God did not reject them. That Jesus was the Jewish Messiah. He urged helping those in trouble — those whom he once considered enemies.

He no longer wept at Easter. He spoke firmly and with joy. And there was no more pain in his voice.

Only peace and confidence.

Morning in Lustdorf began with the wind from the sea. Warm, humid, it brought with it the smell of salt, damp earth, and barely perceptible smoke — somewhere on the shore, fishermen were lighting fires. The air here differed from Odesa's: it was transparent, like young wine. Light steam rose above the vineyards — the earth was breathing.

Fritz Steinmeier stood on the terrace of his house drinking strong morning coffee. He was dressed simply: a white ironed shirt, shorts, suspenders, and a straw hat with a dark ribbon. His face, with wrinkles at the eyes and an almost pastoral expression, inspired trust. In Lustdorf, he was known as a respected man — a winemaker, a good Lutheran who sang in the choir and led Sunday school lessons.

That is exactly how he was known. No one guessed that Fritz Steinmeier was not a name, but a mask. His real name was Major Dmytro Balaban. And he was truly known in only one place — the Security Service of the Hetmanate, abbreviated SBG.

He took a sip, slowly placed the cup on the terrace railing. Everything on this day went according to the usual routine: in the yard, workers were loading wine onto a cart, milk churns clattered during loading. The morning seemed serene. But it was the last such day.

A messenger boy running through the garden attracted no attention. He simply handed over a folded sheet. Balaban took the paper, read it — and did not move for a long time.

ODESA. CONTACT CONFIRMED. SUBJECT "PILOT" HAS MADE CONTACT. ASSUMING CONTROL.

He reread it twice more, like an army order. Then, unhurriedly, he put the sheet in his pocket and went to the cellar.

It smelled of damp clay, yeast, and old wood there. He walked past the barrels, ran his palm over the oak surface, stopped at the wall, and slid aside a panel hidden between the shelves. Behind it was a narrow passage and a small room. On the table — a radio station.

A kerosene lamp illuminated a map of the coast, a telegraph key, a code book, and the coat of arms of the Rusyn Hetmanate — a trident in a bronze shield, entwined with ears of wheat and a laurel branch.

He sat down, put on his glasses, and began tapping out encrypted text in Morse code:

Kyiv, Base "Black Vine," Subject "Pilot" confirmed in Odesa. Channel activated. Contact established via Rabbi Zusia. Awaiting instructions.

After the transmission, he took off his glasses, wiped his forehead, and poured some wine — from last year's barrel standing in the corner. He took a sip and winced.

"Too early," he said, putting the glass back. "But by autumn, it will be ready..."

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE AS A MEMBER OR VISITOR

Reader Count & Comments

Date

Read more articles by Stanislav Dema or search for other articles by topic below.

Search for articles on: (e.g. creation; holiness etc.)

Read more by clicking on a link:
Free Reprints
Main Site Articles
Most Read Articles
Highly Acclaimed Challenge Articles.
New Release Christian Books for Free for a Simple Review.
God is Not Against You - He Came on an All Out Rescue Mission to Save You

...in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them... 2 Cor 5:19

Therefore, my friends, I want you to know that through Jesus the forgiveness of sins is proclaimed to you. Acts 13:38

LEARN & TRUST JESUS HERE

FaithWriters offers Christian reading material for Christian readers. We offer Christian articles, Christian fiction, Christian non-fiction, Christian Bible studies, Christian poems, Christian articles for sale, free use Christian articles, Christian living articles, New Covenant Christian Bible Studies, Christian magazine articles and new Christian articles. We write for Jesus about God, the Bible, salvation, prayer and the word of God.