WWI Christmas Organ
ONCE IN A SMALL VILLAGE
by Elliot H. Kone
In December 1944, the 611th Ordnance Battalion, in which I was a young sergeant, arrived at Rouen, France, shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. Our orders were delayed so we-two hundred men and equipment-were sent to camp in the woods.
Until our orders came through, our only food was meager emergency rations. So one day my tent mate, a PFC named Jim Richmond, and I took cigarettes, hard candies and soap and walked through the snowy woods, hoping to trade them for eggs and cheese at some farmhouse along the way.
After several miles we came upon an empty village, completely deserted. Even the street and road signs were gone, probably removed by retreating German soldiers. The one-room store was locked. No one answered our knocks at the doors of the few houses. To rest and get out of the chill wind, we entered the only other building, a church. Right away I spotted a small organ.
When I entered the army, I could play the organ by ear, so various army chaplains had drafted me to play for religious services. From this I had learned more about the instrument. Now I examined the organ.
It was a two-manual harmonium with pedals for pumping air by the organist and a number of stops for instrumental effects. It was well made but had not been used for a long time. The beautiful carving on it was covered with layers of dust; the bellows were torn and closed, the pedals flat on the floor and at least half the keys depressed. I tried it, but no sound could be coaxed from it.
"I think we could fix it if we had the tools and materials," I said. "The villagers will surely come back as soon as they see that the battle isn't going to be fought here. It would be a wonderful surprise for them to find a restored organ."
Jim agreed. "It's nearly Christmas. It would make quite a present for them," he said.
Since we had little to do until orders came through, here was our chance to make up in a small way for the grief and damage the villagers must have endured in the war.
We returned to camp and gathered the tools we'd need-plus some wire, oil, tire patches, used inner tubes, nails, screws and bolts. The next morning we dismantled the organ, starting at the top, and carefully laid out each screw, washer, spring, stop, reed, key and piece of woodwork in order. Neither of us had taken an organ apart before. But as machinists we had been trained to remember parts in their order, so they could be replaced exactly. When it was finally disassembled, parts of the organ lay in rows in the front pews and on the steps to the altar.
We stripped and patched the bellows with the inner tube rubber and the tire patches. We rewired the pedals so they would work the bellows. We oiled and cleaned each key, reed and stop and then carefully put them back in place. We oiled and polished the woodwork and cleaned the metal till the organ gleamed. It was quite a sight. More important, it played very well when I tried it. The lovely tones echoed in the church as the rays of the late afternoon sun came through the stained-glass windows.
I began to play a Hebrew lullaby my mother had sung to me. I glanced at Jim, who stood beside me, then looked quickly away. His face revealed the homesickness neither of us wanted to voice, just as we did not speak of the heavy fighting we sensed ahead.
"Do you know `Faith of Our Fathers'?" Jim asked.
I played a verse from memory, then drifted into old carols I had learned as a boy from a neighborly Italian family.
As I stopped playing, and the echoes died, the church suddenly seemed very quiet. In that moment we felt very close to the unseen men, women and children who had prayed here in sorrow as well as joy.
We wanted to stay until someone entered the church. We wished we could witness their delight when they found that their organ would play music again. But we had to be back in camp by six o'clock and we barely had time to make it.
When we reached camp, it was bustling. Orders had come through to move to the front. A warm, hearty supper had been prepared for the whole battalion; tents were being knocked down. By 3:00 a.m. we were all on army trucks rumbling out of the camp.
I looked toward the village, but it was too far away to see. To my surprise, however, the dread of battle was tempered by the scene I imagined taking place there sooner or later, the surprise and pleasure the villagers would surely feel. And in the years since, I have wondered many times who first entered the little church and saw the organ, polished and gleaming. Who first tried it, heard its sounds and perhaps ran into the street to call others? Did it seem like a miracle to them?
They would never know that a Jewish sergeant and a Protestant private revived the organ of their Catholic Church. Yet I hope the villagers will remember the restored organ as proof that adversity can make brothers of us all. That's the way I remember it.
by Elliot H. Kone
In December 1944, the 611th Ordnance Battalion, in which I was a young sergeant, arrived at Rouen, France, shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. Our orders were delayed so we-two hundred men and equipment-were sent to camp in the woods.
Until our orders came through, our only food was meager emergency rations. So one day my tent mate, a PFC named Jim Richmond, and I took cigarettes, hard candies and soap and walked through the snowy woods, hoping to trade them for eggs and cheese at some farmhouse along the way.
After several miles we came upon an empty village, completely deserted. Even the street and road signs were gone, probably removed by retreating German soldiers. The one-room store was locked. No one answered our knocks at the doors of the few houses. To rest and get out of the chill wind, we entered the only other building, a church. Right away I spotted a small organ.
When I entered the army, I could play the organ by ear, so various army chaplains had drafted me to play for religious services. From this I had learned more about the instrument. Now I examined the organ.
It was a two-manual harmonium with pedals for pumping air by the organist and a number of stops for instrumental effects. It was well made but had not been used for a long time. The beautiful carving on it was covered with layers of dust; the bellows were torn and closed, the pedals flat on the floor and at least half the keys depressed. I tried it, but no sound could be coaxed from it.
"I think we could fix it if we had the tools and materials," I said. "The villagers will surely come back as soon as they see that the battle isn't going to be fought here. It would be a wonderful surprise for them to find a restored organ."
Jim agreed. "It's nearly Christmas. It would make quite a present for them," he said.
Since we had little to do until orders came through, here was our chance to make up in a small way for the grief and damage the villagers must have endured in the war.
We returned to camp and gathered the tools we'd need-plus some wire, oil, tire patches, used inner tubes, nails, screws and bolts. The next morning we dismantled the organ, starting at the top, and carefully laid out each screw, washer, spring, stop, reed, key and piece of woodwork in order. Neither of us had taken an organ apart before. But as machinists we had been trained to remember parts in their order, so they could be replaced exactly. When it was finally disassembled, parts of the organ lay in rows in the front pews and on the steps to the altar.
We stripped and patched the bellows with the inner tube rubber and the tire patches. We rewired the pedals so they would work the bellows. We oiled and cleaned each key, reed and stop and then carefully put them back in place. We oiled and polished the woodwork and cleaned the metal till the organ gleamed. It was quite a sight. More important, it played very well when I tried it. The lovely tones echoed in the church as the rays of the late afternoon sun came through the stained-glass windows.
I began to play a Hebrew lullaby my mother had sung to me. I glanced at Jim, who stood beside me, then looked quickly away. His face revealed the homesickness neither of us wanted to voice, just as we did not speak of the heavy fighting we sensed ahead.
"Do you know `Faith of Our Fathers'?" Jim asked.
I played a verse from memory, then drifted into old carols I had learned as a boy from a neighborly Italian family.
As I stopped playing, and the echoes died, the church suddenly seemed very quiet. In that moment we felt very close to the unseen men, women and children who had prayed here in sorrow as well as joy.
We wanted to stay until someone entered the church. We wished we could witness their delight when they found that their organ would play music again. But we had to be back in camp by six o'clock and we barely had time to make it.
When we reached camp, it was bustling. Orders had come through to move to the front. A warm, hearty supper had been prepared for the whole battalion; tents were being knocked down. By 3:00 a.m. we were all on army trucks rumbling out of the camp.
I looked toward the village, but it was too far away to see. To my surprise, however, the dread of battle was tempered by the scene I imagined taking place there sooner or later, the surprise and pleasure the villagers would surely feel. And in the years since, I have wondered many times who first entered the little church and saw the organ, polished and gleaming. Who first tried it, heard its sounds and perhaps ran into the street to call others? Did it seem like a miracle to them?
They would never know that a Jewish sergeant and a Protestant private revived the organ of their Catholic Church. Yet I hope the villagers will remember the restored organ as proof that adversity can make brothers of us all. That's the way I remember it.
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