Then, one gloomy winter day, her mother brought home a fat spruce wreath and attached four red candles to it, and her dad hung it from the chandelier with wide red ribbons (years later she tried to suggest the proper liturgical colors--in vain). The room filled with fresh forest fragrance. That Sunday night Mama and Papa lit a candle and switched off the light. She stood in the dark, holding her parents' hands, and listened to her mother tell of the most special baby ever born, in a stable, many, many years ago, a child so good, so filled with love, that when it grew up its love brought peace to the world and turned enemies into friends.

She had heard the story before, many times, but she never grew tired of it. She didn't think of the Christ Child as a boy or a girl, but simply as a child like herself, her very dearest friend, different from her only in never even thinking of being naughty or mean or selfish or dishonest. Soon this special baby would come down from heaven and visit all the children and parents in the world to help them celebrate its birthday, and maybe, just maybe to stop the sirens from screaming and the black boots from marching and people from hating each other for no reason at all. She looked at that bright flame and suddenly all her fears dispersed like morning fog after the sun has come up. There in the dark room with that one steady flame she knew that everything would be alright, that light was stronger than darkness.

Fourteen years came and went and she was a student of literature and philosophy at the University of Vienna. She was no longer a child, but of the annual seasons she still loved Advent most of all. For years she had felt called to be a priest, and since this was impossible, she audited Latin lectures on scholastic theology in a dark, cavenous hall filled with a flock of solemn young seminarians in black cassocks. She also joined a Catholic youth group in one of the poorer sections of the city. Sunday nights she and the others, including her friend Ulrike, the church organist and choir director, would meet at the rectory.

Father Holzberger was the first priest she had ever known who wore slacks and a sport shirt unless he was about to say mass. He lived simply, in a few bare rooms with walls covered with books. Occasionally he spoke of his years in a concentration camp, or his mountain climbing escapades in the Alps, but mostly he listened to the troubles of others or talked about scripture and literature and philosophy and ways of following Jesus by living a life of learning, service, and love. She watched him give support, money, food, whatever was needed, to those who asked and those who didn't. One afternoon, when she was down to her last ten shillings (worth about fifty cents) and was staring hungrily into the shop window of a grocery store, the priest materialized behind her (again in civvies), grabbed her arm, marched her into the market, and bought her a two week supply of food. That's when she noticed that in the shadow beneath the brim of his hat one of his eyes was brown and the other blue, and she began to see that disparity as symbolic of a strange fracture in his soul.

He was an inexhaustible source of strength, wearing himself out in the service of others. He spoke much of God's love and forgiveness. And yet beneath it all it seemed to her that he was a haunted man; a man who spoke of love and gave love with the dogged determination of one who himself feels unworthy of God's love. Once she asked him why he seemed so terribly sad whenever he thought no one was watching. He said there was much she did not understand, and he hoped she never would. Then he asked her if she had ever read the Divine Comedy. She nodded. "Dante was right," he said, "The pit of hell is ice, a void made of ice."

She wanted to tell him that she suspected the source of his pain. In unguarded moments, she had seen him look at Ulrike, and Ulli look at him, and the yearning tenderness in their eyes reminded her of her parents' passion, but without her parents' joy. And she remembered Ulli's story about the time the two of them had gone on an extended Alpine hike with a youth group, and that she had forgotten her toothbrush and how they had shared a toothbrush. Why would anyone recall and recount this insignificant incident unless it was not insignificant at all? It seemed to the girl that sharing a toothbrush was as close to marriage as these two people dared go because they both believed in his priestly promise. She wanted to tell him that God is love and doesn't judge. She wanted to tell him that God understands. But she was a lay woman and young enough to be his daughter. How could she tell the priest that he was forgiven, or maybe that the guilt was of his own making and what he thought was sin was grace instead? So she said nothing.

The First Sunday of Advent the group met at the rectory. The girl was surprised that there was no wreath. This was her first year away from home and she had looked forward to Father Holzberger lighting the candle and all of them singing one of her favorite Advent hymns. "Where is the wreath?" she asked. "We can't afford such luxuries," snapped the housekeeper. The girl looked at the priest, and for a moment his smiling mask slipped, and the lines on his face deepened. "I haven't put up a wreath in years," he finally said. This made no sense to her at all. Advent wreaths were more part of the Austrian Christmas season than Christmas trees. Even the poorest of the poor who might not be able to afford a tree usually managed buy or make a wreath. A rectory with no Advent wreath?

Later that night, the girl walked across the Donaukanal bridge, through the dark, icy cobble stone streets to the midtown apartment on the Wollzeile, owned by the diocese, a mere block from her beloved Saint Stephen's Cathedral and practically next door to Archbishop Koenig who would be created Cardinal in a couple of weeks on December 15. That's where she lived with about nine other students who had been lucky enough to get into cheap housing run by the Austrian post-war equivalent of Catholic Social Services. She had no extra funds, but there had to be a way. The next day she talked a redfaced peasant woman at the Christmas market out of several fresh and fragrant blue spruce branches, bought four candles, some wire, and a long satin ribbon, and spent the evening fashioning a small but exquisite wreath. The best she had ever made, and she was an expert Advent wreath maker! Long before dawn, she carried her treasure to the rectory through the hushed, snow-covered streets, tip-toed up the stairs to the priest's apartment, and attached her messenger of hope and light and love to the brass door handle. Anonymously, of course.

She could barely wait for the Sunday night gathering. Had her gift been accepted? Had the tiny flame been able to melt at least some of the ice and brought forgiveness? She looked around, hoping that the wreath had been given a place of honor. Finally, she saw it, half hidden on a cabinet, pushed back, next to some cups and books, one of the candles askew. And none of the candles had been lit, all the wicks were white. Her world turned dark. As if she had been reading her thoughts, the housekeeper made a caustic comment about finding this ridiculous thing attached to their door. "Probably some idiot girl with a crush on Father." The priest looked pained. She wished she could crawl under the threadbare rug.

Shortly before Christmas Father Holzberger had a heart attack and spent many weeks in the hospital. She visited him there and talked about symbolism in John Donne and T.S. Eliot and listened to his stories of growing up in a mountain village and how during the war, while he was in prison, he had a vision of his brother being killed on the battle field next to a barbed wire fence. Eventually the priest was released, and the Sunday night youth group gatherings at the rectory resumed. She could barely stand to look at her Advent wreath, now a faded and dusty skeleton, still perched behind those cups and books, all four candles askew. Why on earth don't they throw it out, she wondered. Winter was turning into spring and Advent had given way to Lent.

That's when Father Holzberger had another heart attack and died. One last time she walked to the rectory and up those narrow stairs. The priest's body was lying in state, hands holding a rosary. His chin had been tied up, there were bluish blotches on his waxen skin, but his face seemed peaceful at last. Then she saw her wreath, on a table right next to the bed, all the candles straight in their holders and two of them burned down several centimeters. It's a miracle those dry twigs didn't catch on fire, she thought, not yet grasping the significance of the moment. Through a fog she heard someone say (was it the housekeeper?) that Father was conscious after the attack, and a priest was called, and he needed candles, and these were the only candles in the house, so they lit them, and Father kept looking at those flames, smiling the most beautiful smile.

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Note: The story is true but names and some minor details have been changed to simplify the plot and protect the identity of the people involved. In 1996 I had a chance to visit with Cardinal Koenig.  I mentioned the priest, and after all those years Koenig not only remembers him but recalled his love of nature and collection of minerals.