Stille Nacht
A Christmas short story
The silence deflated his spirit. An uncanny soundless air shrouded the mountainous German village church as the organ’s pipes refused to even gasp. Desperately, the priest’s youthful fingers scaled the ivory keys, while he withheld the instinctual urge to frustratingly pound the instrument. Despite his tinkering and twisting of knobs to discover the source of the issue, the organ produced no music.
Months of meticulous preparation for the Christmas Eve Mass were whisked away by the instrument’s refusal to perform its primary function. A vital component in the parish’s spiritual life, the organ was reduced to merely another piece of furniture, devoid of divinity.
Resembling more of a hive than that of a rational being, the priest’s mind waded through bombarding thoughts — is there a key I haven’t fiddled with yet? Might there be someone in the village to repair the organ? Perhaps, by some miracle, the instrument will work tonight? None of those questions steered him toward any practical solution — for he had already inspected each key and knob one-by-one; any craftsmen had already retired from their duties to partake in festive preparations; and a miracle was hardly likely. Yet he could not celebrate Mass without music, especially this evening.
With a deep breath, the priest reined in his thoughts, focusing on the manger and the infant within it. On Christmas Day, nearly two thousand years prior, the incarnation of the Word, Truth, and Life humbly dwelled within — what he believed — the first altar. In his estimation, there could be no coincidence that Christ was wrapped in swaddling clothes in a manger. Though appearing simple, the manger was filled with symbolism and purpose forever forged in the Church’s daily life. Even the word itself was derived from the Latin meaning “to eat” — and the faithful are graced to eat of His flesh in the Eucharist. God authored His masterpiece with enough hints for humanity to acknowledge, analyze, and contemplate, the priest thought. He almost believed the Nativity was too perfectly written, but it’s poeticism instilled curiosity and creativity, rather than stoking the flames of cynicism.
There were souls he ministered to who did not think likewise; they were more like aimless shadows who despised the sun, yet depended upon its light for mere existence. He remembered a particular man, an Austrian soldier crippled by a French cannon, despondently pleading for death while laying in a makeshift cot. As the priest tended to his injuries, the soldier — a young man, perhaps not older than 20 — quietly cursed the Almighty through guarded lips. “God is the initial instigator of war. Napoleon is simply another disciple.” However, the priest saw a trapped soul, and attempted to guide the man spiritually.
Two days before Christmas, the priest found the soldier dead. The young man had taken his own life, using a knife he stowed in a pillow after dinner. At the time, the priest had never seen a darker, nearly black, red, which soaked into the cot, through the cracks in the church floor. The unsalvageable item was tossed into a fire on Christmas, for the caregivers refused to allow another soldier lie on it lest to sacrifice their morale. Every snap of flame echoed into the starless, silent night sky as the priest prayed for mercy on the soldier’s behalf. “I’ve failed you,” unconsciously escaped from his lips, yet he wasn’t entirely sure of who he meant to address that toward: the soldier; himself; or the infant in the manger.
After the fire extinguished the cot’s remains, along with every drop of blood within it, the priest dejectedly returned to his quarters. Though exhausted, he had been unable to sleep since discovering the soldier. He had previously ministered to dying men, women, and even children — but this struck another chord. There was no stillness in the soldier’s plagued heart; and, as a priest, no actions he took provided comfort. Nothing resonated.
The silence stirred the sleepless priest as he began formulating words in a mind mired in a hazy storm. He contemplated on how silence lurked in Bethlehem that night, in a world that — unbeknownst to those outside the stable — experienced a bloodless revolution. The birth was a decisive defeat of death, trumpeting a deafening silence louder than any cannon. They were words he wished to have said to the soldier — of comfort, peace, and, even, rest. Provoked by inspiration, the priest rose from his bed, drifted toward a table, lit a candle, and penned a few stanzas. He wrote as if inhabited by another spirit, possessing no agency in the poem’s creation. Yet the lines were in his own hand. In that moment, a weight was momentarily lifted off his heart, and even a slight smile emerged while he assessed the work’s simplicity. He placed the poem within a wooden chest — a gift from his late mother — blew out the candle, and then slept.
That night was two years ago. As his mind retreated to the present, he had nearly forgotten the poem entirely — but not the soldier. His fingers mindlessly paced back and forth again on the organ, hoping the deadened notes would resurrect, yet to no avail. Turning from the instrument, the priest faced the crucifix looming behind the altar — and quickly lost himself in the figure’s agonizing pain. The contrast from Calvary to Bethlehem was striking. It always had been — by celebrating the birth, we also celebrate His death, he thought. When did Christ first understand his vocation: as an adult or did He instinctually know from his infancy? The answers, perhaps, would never be revealed — not even in the hereafter; but would the answers make a difference then?
In his heart, he believed a silent Mass would be uninspiring. A feverish bile boiled within him at the prospect of failing — he remembered the blood.
“What am I to tell the choir or Franz?”
Franz was the schoolmaster in the adjacent village, Arnsdorf, and had served as the parish organist several years before the priest’s arrival. When the priest first met Franz, he found the latter’s surliness, strong jaw, and fortress-like build to be completely incompatible from the man’s cheerful disposition. Both musically inclined, the two developed a friendship with relative ease.
Then Franz’s first-born died, succumbing to disease during the priest’s first winter. Even in his limited life, the son exhibited his father’s pleasant nature. At the funeral, the priest saw the large man’s spirit shrink inward. His chin more pronounced; his eyes sapped of color; his breathing heavy. The spirited man aged throughout the service, looking more than twice his age by the end. Even though Franz and his wife, Maria, had another child, she too had been sickly since her birth in the spring.
Franz maintained his obligation as an organist; however, his fingers were noticeably heavier on the keys, as if the chords transmitted the player’s despondency. How would he react to this, the priest wondered.
The shadows of the pews shifted, cascading over the altar. It must be early evening, the priest realized, reacting as though he overslept. Time was limited for an alternative — and he had to inform his friend. Due to the brewing inclement weather, the priest estimated the walk to Arnsdorf would take longer than usual, and most likely be dark by the time he reached Franz’s home.
“Best start now.”
He briskly collected his coat and hat, which lay in the first pew, and proceeded toward the main entrance. While adjusting the hat on his head, the priest surveyed the church — the candles primed for illumination in the windows and a crèche with St. Joseph and the Virgin Mary overlooking a barren manger. A figurine of the infant would be gently placed in the manger during Mass, but the emptiness reinforced and reverberated the silence within the church. He often heard God’s voice in these moments; however, the lack of a response he perceived as disappointment. True, there are worse afflictions infecting humankind, and others who desperately needed prayer, he thought, but his restless heart forbade him to let those settle into his consciousness. He needed inspiration — like the poem. But none appeared on the horizon.
As he approached the main entrance, the howling wind seeped between the door’s cracks, with its cold sting penetrating the priest’s gloveless bony hands. He immediately cupped them, blowing air for a modicum of warmth. After shaking his hands, as if to flick the cold away, he dug them underneath his armpits and walked out into the open air.
The early evening bright red sun drifted westward over the mountains, blanketing the leafless trees in a fiery glow — appearing as orbs floating over the village. In any other circumstance, the priest might have paused to admire the scenery, but the sudden gale thrashed him, forcing his hurried steps toward the rectory. He didn’t want warmer clothes — he needed warmer clothes. As he crossed a narrow, frozen cart path, the wind nearly threw the priest through the rectory doors, carrying him to his quaint bedroom, which housed a bed, writing desk, and the wooden chest, more beaten and worn since his prior assignment.
Practically, the chest stored his winter clothes, notes, and even a map of the Austrian Empire. Concurrently, the object served as a safe for heirlooms. As the sole offspring of an unwed embroider and deserter — of both military and familial obligations — the priest carried everything he could in it, cherishing an ancestral history he knew would die with him.
As he scrambled through the chest, the priest found a pair of gloves sewn by his mother. While placing them on the bed, the wind from outside swirled into the room. With the weight of the gloves gone, several papers in the chest flew out, scattering across the floor. The wind captured the priest’s attention, as he noticed the unlocked front door while hurriedly grabbing the papers. He rushed to close the door then repeatedly belittled himself as a fool for letting any precious warmth out — or worse, damaging any items in the chest.
After organizing the papers, a slightly torn, yellowed page was first in the order. It looked untouched for several years, but he instantly recognized what it was: the poem he had written years ago. His eyes glazed over the page, not inspecting the words — feeling reading it might be too pretentious. Even fear crossed his mind: what if it’s not the quality I remember, he thought. Despite the dissipating whirling wind, the priest nevertheless heard a sound permeating in the otherwise silent room. Perhaps he imagined the sound, or they were his own thoughts echoing into the space. But the sound was clear — a gentle voice saying, “Read.”
Catching the last bit of fiery red sunlight from the bedroom window, the priest read. Line by line, the words melted the anxiety enclosed around his heart, as if they siphoned the sun’s warmth. There was an unintentional musicality in the structure, one which rang tenderly in his ear. He felt transported — back to that sleepless night, back to the flapping, engulfing flames. In that dark night, there was a quiet revelation. A stone had been removed. His prayer, providentially, perhaps being answered two years prior. With a new, ignited passion, he bundled the poem in his coat pocket and dashed off to Franz’s home.
As he ran past parishioners who exchanged season’s greetings, the cold wind that once pierced his flesh flowed around him. Halfway, he realized he forgot the gloves on the bed. But it did not matter. His hands were warm.
***
Franz hunched over the kitchen table, running his left hand through his thick, grayed hair, while his right mimicked the notes on the sheet music. The papers were sprawled out in no particular fashion, as if they were spilled. He had been there for nearly an hour or more, sitting in the darkened room for the sun had set. A candle emanated the only light, but its wick had nearly depleted. Wax dripped over the chamberstick on a page. Franz paid no mind.
The light thuds from his tapping fingers contrasted with the elaborate score in his mind — a tapestry of carols and hymns he learned under his teacher’s tutelage as a young boy. He would have never learned if his father — a linen weaver — had suffocated his gifts; but the old man saw promise in his son, and therefore paid for the education. A grateful son, Franz contributed to the business whenever possible, and he was unashamed to do so. He saw his father’s work as an art, as well as an integral foundation to his musicality, especially his guitar playing — which he often did to lull his son and, now, daughter to sleep. “Never underestimate how a trade will connect you to all walks of life and reveal your own character,” he imparted on his own students.
He wished to express those teachings to his own son, but that time had passed. And his infant daughter also suffered from an illness. The rocking cradle’s creaking accompanied his tapping in a colliding, jarring fashion, shattering the musical illusion he desperately tried to achieve. Yet, even though it mangled his creativity, he could not be upset — he understood the circumstances. He did not allow himself to be frustrated, but an increasing worry boiled within him: the first death nearly drowned his spirit, would a second finish the task?
“How is she?” he asked his wife, who rocked the cradle in their bedroom.
“On the verge of sleeping,” she replied with wearied breath, as if the response were itself a mighty effort.
“I’ll keep the noise down then,” miming the playing over the table. He could hear what should have been a resounding Hallelujah from the church choir drift into whispers then into nothingness. With both hands, he wiped his face, stretching the tightened skin downward. He thought of his son, feeling his large frame become limp — drained of any energy.
“God help us,” he prayed. Only the creaking softly permeated through the house.
Suddenly, there was a knock. With all his strength, Franz lifted himself from the kitchen table and lumbered toward the door, not even dwelling on who was on the other side. There could only be one person at this hour.
“Hello, Father,” Franz flatly stated while opening the door. The priest’s demeanor emitted an uncontainable frenzy, but the organist could not detect whether it was fueled by anxiety or excitement. Perhaps both, he wondered. Franz motioned the priest inside. He noticed the guest’s gloveless hands were remarkably normal, rather than a discolored blue — similar to a bruise.
“How’s Emilia?” the priest asked, removing his cap. In response, Franz’s sorrowful eyes darted toward the bedroom where Maria continued rocking the sickly infant. The priest followed the vision, catching a glimpse of the baby squirming restlessly, as well as a guitar leaning in the corner. He tipped the cap empathetically to Maria, who — without speaking — greeted him. The rings around her eyes were darker than his previous visit. The sleepless nights weighed her hand, locking it with the cradle. She reminded him of the soldier. Walking into the room, the priest gave a blessing for the child’s health — but Maria still sat there, dispirited. Franz withheld the compulsion to tear. He couldn’t imagine his wife burying another child so soon.
With his arm on Franz’s back, the priest led him toward the kitchen, seating the man at the table. He noticed the scattered sheet music. He knew his friend had been practicing — all for naught. This will be tough news, he thought.
“The organ is broken. I have tried to fix it, but haven’t discovered the problem. I’m sorry.”
Franz’s expression remained consistent; instead rubbing his forehead — so rough the priest saw the skin burning underneath. A few empty moments passed between the pair as the organist soaked in the information.
“What now?” he managed to ask, speaking through heavy lips.
“What we’ve already planned will have to be discarded. My intention is to still have music —”
“With what?”
The priest stuffed his hand in the coat pocket, wrapping it around the poem.
“New music.”
Franz leaned back, stressing the chair from the weight, believing his friend to be daft.
“Father — you cannot expect new music to be written before midnight with no organ. What will the choir sing?”
Bending over the table, the priest presented the poem to the organist, grinning as he did so. As Franz grabbed it, the paper felt light in his hands, as though it was constructed of fragile material. Since the two met, the man never doubted the priest — but he anticipated that would change while his leaden eyes scrolled the stanzas. No musical inspiration flourished from the lines. It was a simple rhyme structure with plain phrases — almost matter-of-fact. Nothing convinced him this poem was a solution. The priest detected this hesitation as Franz’s face questionably shifted. Meanwhile, the cradle creaked in the adjacent room.
“I know I’m asking the impossible, but I believe you can open another dimension to this with your talent —”
“I’m sorry Father. I’m not sure if I can do it,” giving the poem back to the priest, which sunk in the organist’s hand.
“Keep it,” the priest said, stuffing his hands underneath his armpits, preparing for the cold. “Perhaps it’ll help you.”
“With what?” Franz responded, watching the priest fixing his cap, while walking toward the door. With a twinkled eye, he gazed at his belabored friend and thought of a word he failed to utter at the soldier years prior.
“Rest.”
As the priest left in order to make final preparations, Franz clutched the poem, which, like an anchor, plunged his hand to the table, causing a thud.
“Are you alright?” Maria breathed from the other room. Her voice was barely audible above the rocking cradle. Franz did not respond, instead glancing over the poem again, trying to find a spark of inspiration that never came.
Frustrated, he stood up. The kitchen candle, clinging to life, cast his dominating shadow over the entire house. He ponderously trudged into the bedroom, studying the wrinkles on Maria’s face. She had the appearance of an old woman since their son’s death — which only worsened by the sleepless nights with Emilia. He could not stomach the suffering any longer.
“Maria, let me —”
He did not have to finish. With tired, blackened eyes, Maria gazed upward at her husband from the stool she sat on. The site was troubling, for he felt she looked through him like he was a ghost. Her bones cracked as she arose and shuffled into the kitchen to fix herself tea.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as lifeless as the dead.
“I am not sure. The Mass will be without music.”
As the rocking ceased, Emilia became more agitated, squirming in the cradle. A voiceless pain twisted her face; the helplessness, chained by an anchor, sunk further into Franz’s soul. What I would sacrifice to offer you a moment’s peace, he pleadingly thought. Then the cries erupted, spewing through her toothless gums. Despite her shut eyes, tears streaked across her pale cheeks. Quickly, Franz recommenced rocking the cradle. He could hear Maria’s cracking bones begin shuffling back toward the bedroom. While the wails amplified, there was a brief sparkle — the guitar in the corner, which now reflected the candlelight from the kitchen after Maria moved. A voice within called him to strum — perhaps that will calm her, he wondered.
The cracking bones moved closer.
“No,” Franz commanded, raising his hand.
Leaning over, Franz picked up the guitar and began to lightly pluck the strings. At first, the sounds were unorganized. He longed to calm the wailing, to ease the tears, to relieve the sickness. He had a father’s wish: that everything would be alright. He strummed the nameless lullaby he often hummed for Emilia. Though basic chords, the instrument emitted a soothing music like a conduit for his emotional aspirations, rather than his suffering. As he played, the crying began slightly subsiding, while her twisted face unfurled; however, she was not fully sleeping, so he kept on. Moved by an unknown muse, the priest’s poem leapt to Franz’s mind, then to his lips as though it circumvented any rational barrier — like an involuntary muscle.
He sang the poem, which flowed like an undammed river. As the song naturally weaved into existence, Franz could not believe how the tune had not already been conjured by the great artists throughout history. There was gravity to the melody, as though it was meant to exist, waiting for ages to spring forth like a geyser — by why now?
Emilia stopped twitching. Her face no longer pained. Her chest peacefully inhaled and exhaled. He felt reassured she was asleep. Within his resuscitating heart, he knew his son also slept soundly somewhere — in another time for all time. Wiping a tear from his eye, he soundlessly arose and crept into the kitchen toward Maria. Her eyes were no longer darkened, but filled by a glow from the candlelight making her appearance youthful. He kissed Maria on the cheek, which was still salty from her tears.
“Franz —” Maria gasped, nearly weeping as she embraced him, as though the burdens from the past year were unshackled. She did not speak another word, nor did she have to. Without delay, she rushed to grab her husband an ink well and pen, while he threw aside the papers on the table. His mind charted notes on the scales. He could hear it all clearly.
The candlelight glimmered brighter than before.
***
The choir exchanged restrained exasperations, though they were visibly confounded. The priest, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding to look into disappointed and frustrated faces, as though he was condemned to the pillory. Over the loft, he stared at the stones below, which waved like strong river currents, drowning and sweeping his spirit away to an unknown country. The fear of failure he felt before returned, flooding his senses. If not for the candlelight in the windows — for snow clouds shrouded the stars and constellations — he would be standing in darkness. Though briefly aflame by the poem’s musical prospects, Franz had yet to arrive, sinking his hope. It had been a few hours since his visit. Midnight approached.
“At this time, I don’t expect any music — but, rest assured, our work has not been for naught. At least not completely,” the priest said, trying to hearten the members’ dismay. He noticed a young boy, named Joseph — whose cheeks were tender from the piercing cold — lose color; his mouth was agape, shocked into a perpetual sigh.
“How so?” said yet another member, while wiping his curled right brow.
The priest had no response. He strained to raise his head, as if trying to lift a boulder. Unintentionally, he locked eyes with Joseph’s dulled expression — the look reminded the priest of the agnostic soldier. How would doing all this work, while accomplishing nothing, impact the boy’s life, the priest wondered. He prayed for Joseph’s spirit. He prayed for a miracle.
“— it’s alright Father,” Joseph suspired. That, more than anything else, struck the priest’s frail heart. It reeked of failure.
The church door creaked open and, for a moment, the priest hoped his friend had finally come — but, after turning around, he discovered it was an elderly woman from the village, layered in winter clothes, who rested her withering bones in a pew nearest the altar. She rubbed her gritty hands for warmth, which produced a light grating. Although soft, there was no other sound to combat it — the silence amplified the rubbing, distracting the priest’s focus. There was no stillness in his mind, only the grating and the voiceless groans of the choir.
As the priest lowered his head once more, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. The finger had a lightness — as if aware of the priest’s anxiety, handling him softly like a usable, yet fragile glass cup. Turning around, the tapping finger belonged to Franz, who stood at full height. With an infectious grin and clutching a guitar in the other hand, the organist effortlessly reached into his coat pocket, returning the poem to his friend.
“Any luck?” the priest asked. Franz chuckled, his large, yet unsaddled frame bouncing. His reaction equated to an outstretched hand, pulling the priest out of the rapid currents — rescuing him from certain doom.
“Perhaps,” Franz smiled. He had a youthful spirit, as if the past year were simply a nightmare he awoke from. He shook the priest’s hand and felt compelled to utter his gratitude, but the priest waved it — smiling back in appreciation.
After removing his coat, Franz began tuning the guitar, its strings frosty from exposure — yet that did not disrupt his process, done with a loose anticipation. There was a new, palpable air in the church, which energized the choir members. The priest saw Joseph’s dull expression revive, though he could not pinpoint exactly what changed. After finishing the guitar tuning, Franz approached the choir, who inquisitively inched closer, gathering in the circle.
“My apologies for being late. Father and I had to draft new music after learning about the organ. I have made copies, but we’ll walk through it together — though time is short.”
Gesturing toward the priest, Franz said, “There are some music sheets in my coat pocket.” As the priest dug through the pockets, he found folded pages — one of which had wax smeared across. He could tell the papers were other sheet music, the same on Franz’s kitchen table from earlier that evening. There were also new handwritten notes — the ink was barely dried — scratched on the back. The priest felt a temptation to read the music, but he restrained the desire, hearing a clear voice from within to withhold the urge. Instead, the priest distributed the music to the members, and then descended from the loft.
He gingerly migrated toward the manger at the foot of the altar, not wishing to disturb the scenery. The candlelight augmented the manger’s dark, empty pit and the moment’s poeticism — the yearning within his heart for the savior’s arrival. He wondered when that day would come, and if he, indeed, would be ready. Meanwhile, the erratically dancing candlelight in the windows whipped shadows across the church, and the darkness outside was magnified. Yet, beyond the candles, the priest swore he could see snowflakes starting to descend from the mountains. There must be a slight wind, he thought. As his vision retreated from the outside to the candlelight once more, the light’s dancing morphed into flickering, like the pyre’s flames from years prior. Despite Franz’s arrival and the musical failure diverted, a faint cracking of whips and cackling invaded his soul, storming every conceivable mental defense he attempted to forge.
Why now, he pled before the manger. Yet there was no answer. He gazed at the floor, watching the shadows ebb through the cracks like the soldier’s black blood. A hive’s buzzing swirled around his thoughts once more, but in a more intensified, purposeful onslaught nearly shattering his wits. The priest’s brow burrowed, shifting his face beyond recognition; meanwhile, his fingernails — curled into a ball — dug into the palms of his hands. The illusive peace, achieved only sporadically since that night, was far off — somewhere wandering in the darkness beyond the church windows. The spiritual warfare had been ever-present.
“Forgive him. Forgive me,” he inwardly begged, while placing his hand on the manger.
Then, through the hive, crept in a sweet soothing, ethereal sound wafting from the choir loft. Gazing upward, the words were both foreign, yet familiar, and a guitar melodically strummed, guiding the unified voice — antithetical to the fabled pied piper he heard told to German children. He saw Franz standing before the members, nodding instructions. The light in Joseph’s eyes shone brighter, beyond their full color, as he — along with the others — sang the words:
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht / Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar / Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
The elderly woman ceased incessantly rubbing her hands, swiveled in the pew, turning her attention to the melody. Her eyes effused a pleasant curiosity, as she tried to unsuccessfully identify the tune.
“Is this new?” she asked the priest. He was distracted — in awe of the beauty Franz had achieved. The song landed along the pews like snowflakes on the few present, quietly extinguishing the blaze within his heart. The organ’s deflating silence was fortuitous — or, perhaps, miraculous. While listening, it was as if his troubles were now asleep, while his hopes were called to witness another, bloodless revolution. The pyre crumbled into ash. The blood dried. The soldier slept, no longer tortured by war. Yet, with Christ in the world, there is hope, he believed; the same hope that guided him to write those stanzas —
The empty manger glowed in the stilled candlelight. A slight, silent wind swept through the nave; however, it was not cold, but warm — wrapping itself around the priest.
“It’s quite peaceful, isn’t it Father,” the elderly woman stated, humming along to the music that was untethered to time. A tear rolled down his cheek.
He felt at rest.
*Author’s note: This is a heavily fictionalized version of how Silent Night was written. If you are interested in the real history of how the song came to be, click here.
Merry Christmas!