Story: Brother Robber adapted from a story by Helene Christaller

Introduction

This is a story about two men, one named Angelo, and another man named Francis, sometimes called Saint Francis. They lived a long, long time ago in Italy, in a place called a monastery with other people trying to follow Jesus. Sometimes they were called “brothers” or “monks,” which is a little like being a priest or pastor. Only a little. As I read, listen for some of these things I have sitting on the table here: a loaf of bread, a pitcher and a cross with two white candles.

The day the story took place was a windy, cold day in Italy, and the wind gave you the feeling that something was going to happen.

The small hut hung like a swallow’s nest on the southern slope of the mountains. The one window opening was plugged with straw to keep out the cold wind that blew over the mountains.

The inside of the hut was drab, even though Brother Angelo was trying to clean and decorate it for Christmas. His brown robe was tucked up to his knees, and he was sweeping together a pile of trash with a homemade broom. At last the dirty red of the rough brick floor became visible, and the young monk put the broom in the corner.

Angelo broke a dry branch into pieces and threw them into the fire burning in a crooked little stove. Then he hung a rusty kettle with water over the flame. Shivering, he looked around the bare, gloomy room.

“It ought to be warm when the Brothers come home, and festive,” he murmured. Proudly he examined the rough wooden cross on the wall, which he had decorated with fresh ivy. Two white candles were fastened to the beams of the cross. They were to be lit for the Christmas Eve celebration.

The water began to boil, puffing out big clouds of steam. The little fire flickered and crackled, and Angelo threw handfuls of RICE into the pot for soup. The small room warmed up ever so slightly.

Brother Angelo sat down on the floor close to the fire, folded his delicate brown fingers across his thin knees, and listened for something outside. His long hair hung down to his shoulders.

Suddenly the door opened and a thin, older man came in, barefoot and carrying a half-filled sack on his back and a little pitcher of wine in his hand. Brother Angelo stood up devotedly and relieved him of his burden.

“Come to the fire and warm yourself, Brother Francis,” Angelo said eagerly. “It is cold outside, but the soup is simmering already, and the other brothers will be here soon.”

Francis, a dark-haired man with shining eyes, looked around the little hut. “You have been quite busy, Brother Angelo. The Holy Child may well visit our hut. I hope that our hearts, too, are well prepared.”

“Yes, Brother Francis.” The young man’s reply sounded slightly embarrassed. The older man raised his eyes in question, but the younger one looked down and said nothing.

“You were alone this morning?,” Francis asked.

“Not the whole time.” Angelo replied. “I had a great fright. Three robbers from the mountains – you know them, I think – came and asked me for food.”

“And you?”

“I sent them away and scolded them well for their bad ways. I told them God would damn them eternally,” Angelo blurted out.

“You said that and sent them away?” Francis said.

“Their hands were red with blood.”

“They stretched them out for help and you left them unfilled?”

“They were robbers, Brother Francis.”

“They were brothers, Brother Angelo.”

“Brothers? The robbers?”

Francis looked at him sternly and his great eyes blazed.

“Yes, the robbers,” he said emphatically.

The young man blushed and did not answer.

“They wander in cold and hunger,” Francis continued, “and you make yourself comfortable in the warm house. O, Brother Angelo, your heart is not so well prepared for Christmas as this hut is.”

Tears sprang to the youth’s eyes. “Do not be not angry with me, my brother Francis; I will make good where I failed!”

A mild light began to glow in Francis’ serious face. “If you want to make it good, take this sack of bread and the pitcher of wine, and go out into the mountain to find the robbers. Take the food to them and ask their forgiveness for your hardness. Then return, so that we may celebrate Christmas together with pure hearts.”

“And if they kill me in anger?”

Francis just smiled, calm and unworried.

The young man bowed his head obediently, threw the sack over his shoulder, picked up the pitcher of wine and walked out of the house.

A thin blanket of snow covered the mountains. Snow covered the branches of the trees, and when the wind blew it fell to the ground with a soft rustling.

Brother Angelo kept his eyes turned to the ground looking for footprints. There were deer and fox tracks coming from the nearby forest. And there, that was a mule, with a driver who wore heavy wooden sandals. But here – these were naked feet; they went criss-cross in confusion, as if several people had walked one behind the other. Blood marked one of the footprints again and again.

The monk followed these footprints. They were leading into the mountains. The sun was no longer high – he must hurry if he wanted to find the robbers before nightfall. A strong wind came up, and it began to snow hard. His brown robe whipped about him as he patiently faced into the gale, his eyes turned to the ground, all the time taking care not to spill the wine in the pitcher.

The landscape grew wild and desolate. Big boulders with caps of snow were scattered over the mountain slope. In the distance a dense sea of fog was swelling, hiding any sight of the nearby town’s church towers, houses or the winding river. Not a sound penetrated to him, no ringing of bells, not a voice could be heard. Silence of death, stones, defiant rocks, ice, snow, howling storm. A flock of crows flew cawing over Angelo’s head and disappeared.

He stood still. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked back. How long had he been walking in this wintry silence? He had left wealth and family to follow Francis, who was now sending him to the robbers?! But his face lit up as he thought of Brother Francis, and he cried aloud, “I go in joyful obedience!”

With new zeal he climbed over the rocks. Here on the summit the wind had blown away the snow and blotted out the footprints. The fog was creeping up on him from the valley, dampening his hair and the hem of his robe so that it flapped heavily against his legs.

“You robbers, where are you?” he cried aloud…But only his echo answered. Dark caves yawned in the rocks here, not a tree gave life to the wilderness, no water rushed over the stones. Everything was gray, the sun behind dark veils.

Suddenly a head with straggly black hair appeared behind a rock, staring at Angelo with sinister, burning eyes. Angelo’s step faltered. Terror gripped his heart. He turned pale.

“Ho there,” the robber shouted, rising to his feet in anger. Slowly another figure rose and shook his hairy fist at the young monk. Then a third man came into view; he was standing over a small, smoldering fire, plucking a crow in order to roast it.

“It seems you want to share our Christmas treat, pious brother?” he mocked. “I can’t promise you more than a leg.”

“What do you want, monk?” the first one bellowed, making Brother Angelo tremble even more. “Will you give us a sermon as you did this morning? It’s hard preaching to those with empty stomachs. Be careful!”

“No,” said Brother Angelo humbly, stepping close. He laid down the sack of bread and placed the pitcher of wine carefully on a ledge. Then he knelt in the snow and said pleadingly, “Dear robbers, forgive me for sending you away from the hut today with such hard words. I have come now to bring you some bread and wine and to ask your forgiveness.” He remained on his knees with head bowed. The wild men looked at the youthful face. The oldest of them turned pale, bit his lip, and angrily turned away. The second covered his eyes with his hands like an ashamed child. But the third, the youngest, laughed a little, embarrassed, and said, “We’ll gladly forgive you, because you are a good man. We felt very hungry today…”

“Why don’t you get up?” asked the pale one.

“Stay and eat with us,” said the other.

Brother Angelo stood up and shook the snow from his robe. “I cannot stay and eat with you,” he said shyly. “Brother Francis expects me for Midnight Service down at the monastery. And I must hurry, for it will soon be night. But perhaps you can visit us in the monastery some time when you are in need of something.”

“And Brother Francis?” they said. “Will he not scold us?”

Angelo’s face lit up. “No! He calls you BROTHERS!”

“Brothers?!” said all three robbers together. There was an uneasy silence.

“Farewell, brother robbers,” said Brother Angelo, taking their rough, stained hands in his soft ones. “Good-bye.” Without answering a word, the three wild men stared after Angelo as he disappeared down the mountain. Not one of them soon reached for the wine or bread, and each avoided the eyes of his companions.

The fog had swallowed up Angelo’s figure and the desolate countryside lay silent and white. Then clear notes could be heard in the distance, first sounding like the deep ringing of bells, then like the chanting of a priest at the altar, and then again like the joyful song of a skylark. And so the old Christmas carol was carried up to the three lost men: “Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem.”

Before many days had passed, the story says, the three robbers came down the mountain to live at the monastery, and led a blessed life until their peaceful end.