THE BROCKHOEFT REPORT --------- Feedback Box:

Vol I, No. IX May 1994 Federal Prison, Ashland

"The journal for narrow-minded, intolerant, absolutist antiabortionists - just like you and me. And if anybody else doesn't like it, that's tough." Joe Bartlett.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[World War II martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer, speaking of the slaughter of the Jews to abortion clinic bomber Johnny Brockhoeft and prolife author and historian George Grant:

"These poor people are being killed in Europe even right now as we speak! And I don't mean soldiers. I mean civilians, including women and children! They are no threat to anyone, yet they are being killed! They are helpless. Why are they helpless? Because of pacifism, pacifism! Because of their own pacifism only? No, no, no, no! We cannot even accuse them of pacifism. Because they are powerless to resist. Their oppressors are an overwhelming force. So to call these poor Jewish people pacifists would be as nonsensical as calling unborn babies pacifists.

"...So rather than an ideology this kind of pacifism would better be called 'idleness' or 'non-involvement.' It is a pseudo-pacifism that is born of indifference, lack of love, apathy, pitilessness....

"Pacifism defeats its own purpose. By discouraging defense, it encourages offense and aggression.

"I thought, 'Oh, dear God, if I really were the victim, oh, how easy it would be for me to see that the use of defensive force is justified! And if I really were the victim, and saw a man in the middle embracing pacifism, oh, how easy it would be for me to see that his pacifism was unjust! Then I would feel certain that the man in the middle was embracing pacifism ONLY because it was MY life in danger and not his own. Oh, dear God!"

"Dietrich and George and the Time Machine"

Chapter 9, "The Brockhoeft Report]

Dear Friends,

A few months ago you were forewarned that a future issue of TBR might consist of a short story with a moral pertaining to the abortion issue. The following one was submitted by our friend Joe Bartlett.

You will recall from your high school and/or college literature classes that, by definition, short stories are works of fiction. What follows is submitted as no more than that. Yet, at least some of it is definitely true. If nothing more, at least the moral of the story is true. It is left to the individual reader to determine however much else to believe. Making matters more difficult to sort out, the named characters are real people in real life, for example Paul deParrie. Nothing has been changed. These people's real names have even been used. Some of you know some of these people. Some of you even are these people. So the characters are actually available for questioning to help determine how much (if any) of the account is purely fictitious. Without further ado, here is what Joe claims happened.

* * *

Dietrich and George and the Time Machine

by Joe Bartlett

January 21, 1996 A.D.

"The Nazis executed Bonhoeffer before you were even born. What do you mean, you spoke to Dietrich Bonhoeffer twenty days ago?" George Grant asked, suspiciously looking at John through narrowed lids. "Listen to me, John Brockhoeft, if you're going to stand there and call yourself a Christian and then tell me you've been dabbling in occult things, seances, or consulting familiar spirits...well you can just leave my house right now!"

"Calm down, George," John tried to reassure him. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. I would never engage in those forbidden practices. I'd never have anything to do with anything that had even a hint of the occult in it. I mean I spoke to Dietrich while he was still alive! I tried to tell you, but you took it as a joke I have a time machine that can take us into the past and then bring us back to the present!"

Here George grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him, exclaiming, "Now you listen to me, Johnny, don't go crazy on us now! You don't have a time machine! There's no such thing as a time machine! There is no such technology available today! Don't go crazy on us now! Your writings have helped the movement understand the need to reject all compromise from our attitudes. If you flip out now you'll destroy your credibility. We may be on the eve of total victory, so grab hold of yourself! Stop talking this nonsense!"

"Some of what you've said may be true, George; the technology probably is not available to build a time machine right now. But so what? What does that have to do with anything? There is something you're not taking into consideration. It only matters whether the technology ever will be available! Because, in that case, what is there to stop someone, from the future, from coming back and letting us use his time machine? In fact, that is what has happened!"

"Oh, nooo!" George moaned. John was losing his mind, it seemed. He wouldn't give up on this time machine claim. "John, please, you don't have a time machine!"

"Well, there's no sense in us standing here and arguing about it. You can't prove I don't have it, but I can prove I do. I parked it in a friend's garage on Pompano Beach, just a few miles from here. Come with me, and give me fifteen minutes to present my evidence. Fifteen minutes from now, if I haven't proven it to your complete satisfaction, I will say, 'Well, George, I guess you were right. I don't have a time machine after all!' Let's go!"

"I'm not going anywhere," George insisted.

"I've come all this way, and you can't give me fifteen minutes of your time?"

George was defiant, "I'm going to Washington tonight. I won't be leaving for four hours. I could give you four hours for something worthwhile, but not to go on a wild goose chase."

"Only give me fifteen minutes to prove my claim. Then, if I fail, I will forfeit any right to the rest of those four hours, and I'll leave you alone."

George was exasperated; but the amount of time asked for was so little, the request was so reasonable, and John seemed so sincere, that George threw up his arms and exclaimed, "What's the use? Okay, let's go. Fifteen minutes."

* * *

"Don't try to pry any information out of me about things to come," the man from the future had told John in 1986. "Ask me nothing. I have not come to give answers about the future but to seek answers from the past. Nor will the machine I am leaving with you allow you to travel forward into your generation's 'real time' future. The machine's computer has been programmed to prevent that. You will only be able to explore the past and then return to your own 'real time' present. Before the machine will take you anywhere you'll have to allow it to perform an HMX analysis of your skin cells. Then it will know your date of birth and your exact present time. You won't be able to go beyond that point. Knowledge of the future must come only by studying the Bible, or by direct revelation from the Holy Spirit, or by studying past history. See? That's all I'm doing studying history. This time in which you live, which seems, to you, to be the present time, is, for me, actually in the past. This might sound confusing right now, but you'll get the hang of it. When we get to the cornfield where the machines are hidden, I'll show you how to operate the one we'll be leaving with you. Then the other pilot and I will use the other machine to return to our own age."

"Don't worry," John had replied. "I won't try to get anything out of you about the future. I know the Bible forbids fortune-telling and consulting fortune-tellers. I doubt that it would apply in a situation like this, but I'm not taking any chances. I'm sure that what the Bible prohibits is the occult, supernatural sort of fortune-telling such as star-gazing, witchcraft, horoscopes, palm-reading, and stuff like that. Whereas your knowledge is only natural, not supernatural. But still, I won't take any chances. I go straight by the Good Book. So, no, I won't ask you anything. I don't want to know. Only, I'm very curious about why you would choose such an obscure, unknown fellow like me? It cannot be possible that I'll be remembered beyond my own generation, with the possible exception of my own family. But no, no, don't tell me anything!"

"I can tell you this much, because you'll discover it on your own in just a moment anyway. The pilot who brought the other chronomobile and who is waiting right now for us in the cornfield, so eager to meet you, is Shawn Brockhoeft, III, your great, great grandson!"

"Well, how about that?!" John had exclaimed. "How 'bout them apples?!"

* * *

Twenty days before the trip with George, John had gone alone to visit Dietrich, spending nearly ten hours with the martyr. Then he returned to his own place in time and space.

Seven children were gathered, sitting on bales of hay, at one end of the big barn on Mike's and Sara's farm. The farm is in southern Ohio. Tim's and Stella's daughter Elisabeth was being entertained by five of Mike's and Sara's older children: Emily, Mindy, Stephen, Jared, and Caleb. The littler ones were in the house. The Myer children were also hosting a little girl named Tori, but I can't recall her parents' names. They were all expectantly looking toward an empty, enlarged (double) stall twenty feet away. This was the destination.

Coincidentally, the time machine had also begun its return flight from a barn, an old, deserted, dilapidated one, not far outside New York City. The time craft's computer screen showed the following data:

DESTINATION GEOGRAPHIC

COORDINATES:

NORTH 38.7690541

WEST 83.7380096

DESTINATION DATE/HOUR:

PILOT REAL TIME (PRESENT)

JANUARY 1, 1996 A.D.

5:22:09 P.M.

So those geographic coordinates coincide precisely with that point on the earth's surface occupied by that corner of the big barn toward which the children were watching in eager anticipation. The time craft, now invisible, was hurtling toward its destination at the speed of 186,000 miles/second. So, of course, the distance was crossed in much less time than you will have required to read this sentence. The tremendous speed and invisibility resulted from the fact that the material of which the craft, and its pilot, consisted, had been briefly transformed from matter (that which takes up space and has weight or mass) into a form of energy.

"Beep, beep, beep! Beep, beep, beep!"

"He's coming back!" Mindy cried. "Beep, beep, beep!" Beep, beep, beep!"

As the rematerialization began, a seven and a half foot diameter sphere-shaped space within the enlarged stall seemed filled with swirling, sparkling twinkles of light. The girls huddled together, squealing in mock "terror", but their pretending was betrayed by their smiles. That's just how girls are. Sometimes, especially when boys are present, they like to pretend like they're afraid when they really are not. Only the Lord and they know why they do it, but it is a very endearing quality. I've seen young women do it too. It is very endearing then too, especially when they throw their arms around you and act like they're looking to you for protection. When it happens you better play along with it, or their feelings might be hurt. Then, who knows how long it will be before they ever put their arms around you again?

The swirling, sparkling phase lasted only a second. Then the sphere was an indistinct, translucent blur. And finally, there it sat, solidified, like a giant, matte-gray bowling ball on the barn floor. A pfft!-sound was heard as the pneumatic seal was broken, and then a twenty-four inch diameter circular hatch thrust forward on one side. The hatch's uppermost edge was attached (internally) by a single hinge to the end of a hydraulically-operated runner which carried the whole hatch out, all the way around, about four inches above the craft's surface. Then it could be swung out, up, and back, locking itself into the open position.

With the seven youngsters looking on in wide-eyed wonder, the forty-five year old pilot emerged. At six feet, one inch in height; green-eyed; with short, light brown hair; sharp features; and a scraggly beard growing wild in all directions, he was wearing baggy, brown, woolen, cuffed pants; a plain, white shirt; WWII era jump boots; and a full-length, army storm coat (olive drab). Before embarking on the journey from which he had just returned, he had wanted to dress in a manner which he hoped would not seem peculiar to people in the summer of 1939. So, of course, when he had gone to that time, he had left the coat inside his vehicle before emerging within the old, forsaken barn.

"Hi, Mr. Brockhoeft!" the seven youngsters called out in the big barn as he stepped out into the stall.

Advancing a few steps toward them, and bending forward sharply at the waist to minimize his height, he addressed them, "Hey, you kids, I know your parents tell you to call me 'Mr. Brockhoeft.'" And now wagging his finger for emphasis, he continued, "But they don't understand. They think I'm one of them. They think I'm an adult. So listen, kids, whenever there ain't any grown-ups around, you can call me 'John', okay?"

"Okay, John," they replied, laughing.

"Aren't! Aren't!" a girl exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"You're supposed to say, 'when there aren't any grown-ups around,' not ain't", she corrected.

"Oh, yeah, that's right. We're in Ohio, I forgot. But whenever you come see me in Kentucky you can say 'ain't' all day long...if there ain't any grown-ups around."

"Aren't!"

"Okay."

With this grammar lesson completed the octet walked hand-in- hand through the length of the barn, emerging at the other end, and started across the barnyard toward the sprawling, cedar log farm- house.

"Are you staying for supper?" Emily asked. "Carl and Marcella are here. So are Tim and Stella and Nancy."

"Dad is grilling hamburgers and hot dogs on the back porch," Elisabeth added.

"That settles that," the pilot answered. "Tim knows just how I like my burgers...all brown and well done and even charred on the outside. You're cotton-pickin' right I'm staying for supper."

"We're having baked beans too," Stephen added.

"That's what I wanted to hear!" the pilot chortled, "That's what I wanted to hear!"

Arriving in the kitchen, John was greeted by Sara with a steaming cup of black coffee. "Did you see anyone we know?" she asked. "Or anyone we've heard of?"

"Uh huh. Bonhoeffer."

"Bonhoeffer!" the name was murmured in hushed tones among the adult pro-lifers throughout the house. "John saw Dietrich Bonhoeffer!"

* * *

At three o'clock the following afternoon Brockhoeft made a phone call to his U.S. parole officer. The ex-con had not been out of prison very long when these things happened and was still a federal parolee under strict supervision, including severe travel restrictions. Nineteen days before the trip with George he asked for, and received, permission to go to Fort Lauderdale to visit George.

"How long do you want to be down there?" the P.O. had asked over the phone.

"Just the one day. I'll be returning the same day," John replied.

"Obviously, then, you intend to fly down?" the P.O. dug for more details.

"Obviously."

"Okay then. But be sure you call me the minute you get back."

"No problem. See ya."

Eight hours later John was sitting at a corner table in a pancake house on Vine Street in Cincinnati. Now dressed in his camouflage fatigues and spit-shined jungle boots, and with his hair cut to military (boot camp) specifications, but incongruent beard, he realized that to those not familiar with him he might appear a lunatic. This he did not mind at all.

Actually, many years earlier, even before his arrest by the feds, he had deliberately decided to cultivate just such an image. Among other things, this image was disturbing to those who killed babies and to those who supported the baby-killers. It made them want to deal with him with a certain kind of "respect." With this kind of "respect" he could get confrontational with the killers, reviling them in the most contemptuous terms, and the confrontations did not escalate into violence because his opponents maintained a safe distance.

Whenever he appeared in Hamilton County Circuit Court to answer misdemeanor charges of "disorderly conduct" or "trespassing", incurred in the course of anti-abortion, public demonstrations, the judge was always polite and found him not guilty or dismissed the charges altogether.

In those years Brockhoeft often spoke openly, but hypothetically (not conspiratorially), about the use of force in the fight against abortion. He maintained that it was right and just to destroy abortuaries by fire or explosives.

One Saturday in the summer of 1986, all these circumstances caused some pro-life moderates to backbite John in his absence. It was after a picketing session and a few had met at a restaurant nearby. A whining moderate was saying, "Could he be an infiltrator? Look at the way he always dresses. And always talking about blowing up clinics! And how come the judges always let him go? He's never found guilty. He must be an undercover agent trying to entrap us!"

But Nancy O'Brien Simpson was there. A friend of John's, she was an absolutist, not a moderate. She defended him, saying, "No. He can't be an infiltrator. He must be for real. He could not speak such words unless they were being given to him by the Holy Spirit."

* * *

Back in the pancake house, January 2, 1996, John had pointedly chosen the corner table. Whenever he was in a public establishment, he sought to sit with his back to the wall so as to be able to observe everything going on. Call it caution, call it paranoia, or whatever you like. It would be unfair and inaccurate to label him paranoid though, because paranoia is only genuine if the belief that "they're out to get you" is imaginary.

As the figure in camouflage sat, awaiting the arrival of his perpetually tardy friend, he had an urge for a cigarette. Jim Condit, Jr., was always late. It must be overlooked though, because he is in fact always busy with something of real importance. Moreover, the political intrigue in which he was involved that night was of consequence to our national security. There was a cigarette machine right inside the pancake house's entrance, but John set his jaw, resisted the urge, and renewed the resolution made in prison never to smoke again. Then Jim walked in.

Every article of the newcomer's attire was coordinated except the scarf or muffler or whatever you call it. Navy blue, wool suit. Immaculate, white shirt. Neatly knotted necktie with broader alternate maroon and blue stripes separated by narrow, white stripes. The diagonally arranged stripes ran downhill from (the viewer's) left to right. Why do diagonal stripes on men's ties always run down from left to right? Have you ever seen them run the other way? I haven't. There must be a reason. Soft, black, leather gloves. Black, wing-tip shoes. The shoes weren't a total disgrace, but anyone could see Jim hadn't shined them for at least a week, probably longer. The neck scarf was the lone protester against the somber, power-imagery of Jim Condit, Jr.'s remaining clothes. It was every color of the rainbow plus maybe eight or ten other vivid hues. It seemed almost alive, as though it could have crawled up his leg, up his torso, and wrapped itself around his neck on its own initiative.

Jim, who always stands and carries himself uprightly, is about the same height as John. Neatly trimmed, very dark hair. Steel-gray eyes. Round face, Irish nose, Roman mouth. Slight pudge above the belt line. At forty-four, he was a year and a day younger than John.

Standing within the entrance, by the cigarette machine, and taking off his gloves, Jim cast glances around until he met John's eyes. Then, with that typical impish grin on his otherwise cherubic face, he strode over, sliding onto the booth's bench opposite John.

"Where do you keep the batteries for that scarf, Jimmy?"

"I was already late and couldn't find mine, so I grabbed one of the kids'."

"What have I told you about the shoes, Jim? You're going to feel humiliated if I start getting down on the floor and shining your shoes. You're headed for big things. Scuffed-up shoes detract authoritativeness from your image."

"When have I had time? I'll shine them tonight before I go to bed."

Suddenly there was a smiling, aproned, thirty-something waitress standing beside the table holding an order pad in one hand and a pencil, poised above it, in the other. She took their orders for cheese and onion omelets, ground steaks, hash browns, grits, buttered toast, and orange juice, and left for the kitchen.

Besides the friendship the two shared, they were one another's closest confidants.

"What's going on with you right now, Johnny?"

After glancing around to reassure himself no one else was close enough to hear, Brockhoeft leaned forward and, in a low, conspiratorial-sounding tone, replied, "I took the machine out last night. Went on a little flight." With that he fell silent and leaned back, leaving it to the other to draw out the details.

Jim didn't tolerate that treatment long. "Well? Well, what happened? Where did you go?"

"Oh, just New York." came the flippant reply with a slight shrug, followed by more silence.

"Well? What time? Any particular date?"

"Yes. July 5th, 1939."

"1939. Not so long ago, historically," Jim mused, "Less than two and a half years before the U.S. entered World War II. Was there any particular reason for going to that specific date, or did you pick it at random?"

"No, not at random. I especially wanted to visit that time and place, not only for my own curiosity, but to fulfill a promise to the man who came from the future to leave the machine with me. He had asked me to seek out a certain individual to try to unravel a mystery to one of history's unanswered questions. Thank God, I found this individual, and he was able to answer the question."

With this, John fell silent once more, but only to collect his thoughts, not to tease his friend further.

Sensing the pensive mood John had suddenly fallen into, Jim dealt mildly with him. "Can you tell me who this 1939 figure was, John?"

"Surely," John agreed. "At that time this man was on his second and final visit to the U.S. It is a matter of historical record, known to us now, that he was to leave the U.S. to return to Europe on July 8th, 1939, so I wanted to see him three days earlier, when he might not have been too pressed for time making preparations to depart. It was Bonhoeffer."

"Dietrich Bonhoeffer!" Jim blurted. "You actually spoke with Dietrich Bonhoeffer!"

"Yes," his friend replied, and lifting his head a little higher, John boasted triumphantly to his Catholic friend, "Don't forget, Jimmy, Bonhoeffer was a Protestant!"

"That may be true," Jim acknowledged. "He may have been Protestant throughout his life; but at the very last moment, surely, the truth was revealed to him; and he was given a last opportunity to convert. Surely he converted and died a Catholic."

"Well, Jim, we may not see eye-to-eye on every theological point, but I think we can agree: Dietrich is with Jesus now. And that's the bottom line. Am I right or wrong?"

"You're right," the more sharply dressed one agreed, "and don't forget, sir, Curt Beseda is a Catholic!"

"And don't you forget, sir, Shelley Shannon is a Protestant!"

"And don't you forget, sir, John Dennis Malvasi is a Catholic!"

"And don't you forget, sir, Don Benny Anderson is a Protestant!"

"And don't you forget, sir, Father Edward Markley is a Catholic and a priest in the bargain!"

"Excellent!" cried Brockhoeft, and with the good-natured, denominational one-up-manship concluding, the two friends laughed and shook hands as the waitress approached with their late-night meal. With the feast spread before them, the two gave thanks with bowed heads and dug in.

Between bites Jim managed to ask, "Are you still keeping the machine out on Mike and Sara's farm?"

"Definitely. They can be trusted implicitly, and their farm is so isolated and remote."

"This question, whose answer your future benefactor asked you to pursue...exactly what was the question?"

A far-away look came into Brockhoeft's green eyes. "The question?" He paused briefly, searching for the right words, then proceeded haltingly, "The question was ...how does a man...a Christian man who...who otherwise is decent and upright, and yet who...who nevertheless ideologically embraces pacifism at every turn, under every circumstance... how is such a man converted from rigid pacifism into a soldier? A fighter?"

"Fascinating!" Jim cried. "Did you get to spend much time with Dietrich?"

"Yeah," John sighed, "Too much, perhaps. Almost ten hours. In the end I was ashamed of my own imposition. I robbed him of a whole night's sleep. He sat up with me all night! When I stood up to leave, the sun had risen."

"Did you tell him your point of origin?...In time, I mean?"

"Yes. Even beforehand, before meeting him, I felt he would be owed an explanation. I tried to rehearse, beforehand, how to explain it. How do you tell somebody something like that, Jimmy? How do you tell someone, without sounding like a fruitcake, that you've come back, in a time machine, from some point in the future, to visit him? I was intending to break it to him slowly; but when the time came, I just blurted it out right up front!"

"Incredible!" Jim, Jr. remarked. "How did he react?"

* * *

The houseguest from abroad was a balding, thirty-three year old man. Wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, he sat reading the New York Times in his host's living room, while awaiting a visiter of his own. He read two or three newspapers daily, anxiously seeking news of the building conflict on his home continent of Europe. Feeling he had made a mistake in coming to the United States a month earlier, he had decided to return to Germany.

Three weeks earlier he had explained to his host, "How will I have the right to help rebuild my country, after the war, unless I go back and share the trials of my people in this present crisis?"

Even as he presented his host with this point, Dietrich Bonhoeffer had felt guilty, almost dishonest. Yet, was it not true? Otherwise, indeed, what right would he have? His sensation of deceitfulness lay in the fact that...he knew he would not be able to help rebuild after the war anyway. He would be dead, and he knew it. It was understood that for him to return to Germany was to die. He would not survive the war. He had accepted this understanding in peace of spirit. So wasn't it kinder to offer that explanation to his host? The alternative would be to say: "You are seeing me for the last time in this world. I must go home to Germany and die."

His scanning of the paper was interrupted by a gentle knocking on his host's front door. Since he was expecting a solitary visitor of his own he laid the paper down and answered the knocking himself.

Upon opening the door, his gaze fell upon the unfamiliar face of a green-eyed, bearded, forty-five year old man slightly over six feet in height. In his left hand the stranger was holding three books with the spines downward, so a casual observer could see only the edges of the pages, not the titles.

"Ah! You have come!" Dietrich exclaimed in his strong, German accent. He held out his right hand to the stranger, who eagerly accepted it in his own right, pumping furiously.

Deliberately telling Dietrich only his first name, the stranger said, "Rev. Bonhoeffer, my name is John, and I can't tell you how pleased I am to meet you. However, there must be some mistake: I cannot be whoever you were expecting. So, since you seem to be expecting another visitor, perhaps I have come at an inconvenient time and should return later."

"No, no, not at all," cried Dietrich, and, firmly taking hold of the newcomer's forearm, pulled him inside, adding, "Come in! Come in, and let's get better acquainted! If there is some mistake, it will solve itself with time!"

With this he closed the front door, and, still grasping the visitor, led him a short distance through the bright, oak-floored foyer and into a study covered with an enormous Persian rug and richly hung with tapestries. Once inside the study, still pulling, Dietrich led the bewildered visitor to an over-stuffed, richly upholstered, red velvet arm chair and urged him to be seated. Yet the one who had simply introduced himself as "John" remained standing.

Seeking some clarification, Dietrich asked, "Is there some particular way I can help you, John? And may I ask what your last name is?"

"With all due respect, sir, can we just say my name is John? But yes, I hope you can help, Rev. Bonhoeffer."

"Please call me Dietrich," the theologian interrupted.

"Thanks, Dietrich, and perhaps this won't take long, and we'll be able to resolve the matter before your expected visitor arrives. We... that is, my colleagues and I ...we were hoping that with all your formal theological training you might be able to clear up a certain point for us. We..."

"Aha! I knew it," Dietrich interrupted again, "You are him after all, John. You are the one I've been expecting! Please sit down!"

John started feeling light-headed. After taking a few deep breaths he insisted, "No, Dietrich, you don't understand. I cannot be the one you were looking for. Let me explain. I'm going to tell you the craziest thing you've ever heard! You might not be able to believe me. If not, I can prove to you I'm telling the truth. If you will only let me take you for a little ride in my machine, you will believe."

"There! See! I knew it was you, John!"

In exasperation, to prove there was a mistake, the visitor blurted it all out, "Dietrich, Dietrich, I can't be the one you're waiting for! I haven't even been born yet! I won't be born until 1951! I have come from the future in a time machine to visit you. Dietrich, can you believe such a wild thing as you have just heard?"

Dietrich softly replied, "Of course I believe you! After all, I've been expecting you all evening,...Mr. John Alan Brockhoeft!"

Here Brockhoeft's head began swimming furiously, and his new friend helped him into the proffered chair. This time travel was mind-boggling.

* * *

"WHAT?" Jim, Jr. almost shouted. Then, embarrassed, he glanced around the pancake house to see if he had attracted any attention. No one was looking. Almost whispering, he asked, "How could he have known who you were?"

"That's a long story in itself," the federal parolee responded. "As I said before, I spent ten hours with him. I almost made a mistake. Actually, I did make a mistake, but hopefully no harm will come of it."

"What would that be? What did you do wrong?"

"Let me put it this way. The man who left the machine with me... oh, by the way, he is a future Chief Curator of the Smithsonian Institution...this guy solemnly warned me..."

* * *

July 22, 1986.

There the three men stood, outside the two chronomobiles, parked in the middle of a vast cornfield, a few miles outside Georgetown. They were two from the "future" and one of this "present". It was time to say farewell, but no one wanted to admit it. Turning a little to face John directly, the museum-keeper issued a final admonishment.

"Please remember, Mr. Brockhoeft, please, never forget...you must change nothing! You must not tamper with the past, nor try to change the course of history...uh, that is, past history...the history of events that took place before your own time! Although the machine will not allow you to explore your own future, or your generation's future, you must even be careful in exploring the history of earlier generations. From the time these two machines were made operational, until they were mothballed and hidden in the Smithsonian Institution, very little experimentation was carried out. We do not eve know, for sure, if, when you visit the past, you will be there only as a spectator, or if it will be possible for you to be an active participant. Who knows how little it would require to alter history when we can go back? When you step into the past, world events might depend on how lightly you set your foot down!

"So please use the machine only as a learning device, without attempting to alter past events. The temptation may be great. It might be within your power to save Bonhoeffer's life, but is that what we would actually want? The Lord our God has always been ultimately in control! Bonhoeffer was executed before you were born. The Lord could have kept him from it. Bonhoeffer was willing to die defending others. He volunteered to die! He became more powerful in death than in life! Had he survived the war, Christianity and the world may have forgotten him. Do not rob him of his voluntary and glorious sacrifice! Do not rob us of the legacy he handed down to us!"

An unseasonably cool wind blew through the cornfield, rustling the tall plants' long leaves. Somber, dark clouds roiled in the western sky.

"I'll do my best to safeguard your trust," John assured the others. The sky was growing darker. There was a flash in the west, followed by rolling thunder.

"And, Mr. Brockhoeft,... John,..."

"Hey, I don't mind if you call me John, but that other young whipper-snapper better not try it," Brockhoeft joked, winking at the youngest man, who grinned at the remark.

"John, give our best regards to great granddad Condit and to Michael Bray as well."

"Michael Bray! I've heard of him. Are you saying then that I'll get to meet him?"

"Oh, I forgot," moaned James Joseph Condit, V, for that was the chief curator's full name. "This is still only 1986, and you still have not met Bray! I should have been more careful. My mind was made up not to reveal any of your future to you, but here I've done it! Yet, it's just as well, perhaps, because it reminds me to caution you strictly to follow the same practice. If you decide to use the machine please exercise caution in revealing any of the 'future' to people from the past. This year, 1986, seems like the present time to you in your 'real' time. But, for Bonhoeffer, this was somewhere in the future. And for your great, great grandson here, and for me, this is the past.

"The thing to bear in mind is that, with the Lord our God it is all the same. He who set time in motion is not constrained by it. As Jesus said, He is the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End, the one Who was, and Who is, and Who is to come. With the Almighty One the future is as clear as the present is to us. But no! That's an understatement! Surely He sees the future even more clearly than mankind sees its own present moment.

"From what point in the future have you come back to visit me?" John asked.

"August 7th, 2076 A.D.," Shawn replied.

"Are you trying to tell me that this feeling I have had throughout my life...this feeling that I live in the present...has been an illusion and that I've been living in the past all along?"

"No. It means only that you are living in your own present time. To tell you the truth, we're not sure how it works ourselves."

"Now that this has happened to me," John noted, "since you have come back and paid me this surprise visit, how can you be sure the same thing won't happen to you? What if there is someone even further up the road than you?"

Shawn and Jim looked at each other, then smiled at each other, and finally burst into uncontrollable laughter. John was at first startled at their reaction, then puzzled, wondering how come people always laugh at him when he is being serious? But finally the hilarity of the moment was so contagious that all three men were roaring. It was some time before they could regain control.

Jim was the first to try to compose himself, his voice quivering with glee, "We...HA, HA, HA!!... We think... HA, HA, HA, HA!!!" And all three men broke down again.

Finally Jim was able to go further, "We think there must be some point in time which is the absolute present moment, a point beyond which no mortal man has yet gone. We can't be sure, but we believe that that time is...HA, HA, HA!!...our own time...HA, HA, HA, HA!!!"

All three men broke down again.

"I'm having second thoughts about something," Jim, V, said, finally in complete control.

"Perhaps you shouldn't even mention me to great grandfather Condit. When he holds me as a newborn baby in 2026, perhaps he should not know I will be Chief Curator of the Smithsonian as an adult. I'll leave it to your judgment whether to say hello for us. But in any case please use the greatest of care in revealing any of your natural knowledge of their future to those who lived before us all."

With the conclusion of all these exhortations and the joyous fellowship, there was another flash of lightning, closer now, and a louder crash of thunder. Heavy drops now pattered on the corn's leaves. A squall was beginning to blow. All three men were loathe to depart, but it seemed the right time.

"Well, sir, God bless you and keep you. We should leave the other machine with you now and return to our own age."

With that said, the yet unborn Condit touched the keyless entry system on the nearest of the two chronomobiles, and a previously unnoticeable hatch was hydraulically raised the usual four inches above the craft's exterior. Grasping the under-edge, the museum- keeper tilted it up and back as one might open a car's trunk. The two men from the yet unborn generation exchanged glances, as if to ask: "Who wants to get in first?"

Then, suddenly sensitive to the fact that the two blood relatives might want to spend the last moment together, Jim stepped in first. The instant he sat on the far seat the computer's screen showed:

1. ___________

2. PASSENGER

Turning quickly to John, the younger Brockhoeft cried, "Good-bye, great, great Grand-daddy!"

"So long, son!" And the two fell on one another's necks and wept.

The rain was falling harder. It was time. As the young descendant (thirty-six years old) stooped to enter the craft his ancestor slapped him on the back. As soon as Shawn sat down the sensor in his seat sent a signal to the computer, whose screen then showed:

1. PILOT

2. PASSENGER

From inside, the pilot pulled the hatch down to the four-inch position. It was then drawn in with a "pfft!" sound as it pneumatically sealed shut.

Inside, the two men's faces were dimly illuminated by a bluish glow from the screen which now read:

PILOT: PLEASE INSERT

ANY FINGER IN

RECEPTACLE "A"

PASSENGER: PLEASE INSERT

ANY FINGER IN

RECEPTACLE "B"

The two men followed these instructions. Seven seconds later the HMX analysis of their skin cells was complete, and the screen then showed the limits beyond which it would refuse to take the occupants:

THANK YOU.

PILOT DATE OF BIRTH:

MARCH 31, 2040 A.D.

PILOT REAL DATE (PRESENT):

AUGUST 7, 2076 A.D.

PILOT REAL HOUR (PRESENT):

P.M. 4:31:54

PASSENGER DATE OF BIRTH:

FEB. 3, 2026 A.D.

PASSENGER REAL DATE (PRESENT):

AUGUST 7, 2076 A.D.

PASSENGER REAL HOUR (PRESENT):

P.M. 4:31:54

PLEASE TOUCH KEY MARKED

"ADVANCE" NOW.

The instant the pilot touched the appropriate key, the above data disappeared and was replaced by:

CURRENT GEOGRAPHIC COORDINATES:

NORTH 38:9107612

WEST 83.9850539

IF SAME COORDINATES ARE DESIRED FOR DESTINED TIME, PLEASE TOUCH KEYS 1-A-1 SEQUENTIALLY NOW. IF DIFFERENT COORDINATES ARE DESIRED, PLEASE TOUCH KEYS 1-B-1 SEQUENTIALLY NOW.

(The inventer considered great precision, in selecting coordinates, important, to allow the pilot to place the vehicle in carefully concealed places where it might not be seen by people who could be frightened by not knowing what it was. The machines could actually be maneuvered into a space as small as a one-car garage.)

THANK YOU.

PLEASE SELECT PRECISE COORDINATES (IF KNOWN) TO NEAREST TEN MILLIONTH OF ONE DEGREE. IF UNKNOWN, PLEASE TOUCH KEYS 1-B-2 SEQUENTIALLY NOW TO CONSULT "PATHFINDER" MEMORY.

Since the pilot already knew the exact figures for a particular place in the Smithsonian's storage area, he keyed them in.

THANK YOU.

IF RETURN TO PILOT REAL TIME (PRESENT) IS DESIRED, PLEASE TOUCH KEYS 1-C-1 SEQUENTIALLY NOW. IF EARLIER TIME IS DESIRED, PLEASE TOUCH KEYS 1-C-2 SEQUENTIALLY NOW.

The pilot touched keys 1-C-1.

THANK YOU. PLEASE TOUCH KEY MARKED "ACTIVATE" AT WILL.

The pilot did so.

Outside, John heard a low hum and took a few steps back, never taking his eyes off the craft into which his descendant had disappeared. Suddenly it seemed his vision was blurring. The vehicle was becoming indistinct. Then the space it occupied was translucent, then filled with swirling, sparkling twinkles of light. Finally, it was gone, and John saw only corn being pelted by rain.

As if to reassure himself he had not imagined these things, he turned quickly to face the remaining machine; but, yes, it was still there. Stepping the few feet to the craft's exterior he gently poked it with his toe as a man might kick the tires on a used car he's considering.

* * *

In the pancake house Jim asked, "So you revealed the future to Bonhoeffer? That's the mistake you made?"

"I didn't mean to," John protested, "I just wasn't thinking. George Grant's publisher will be doing another printing of Third Time Around. I took a copy with me to show Dietrich, thinking he might come up with an idea of how to encourage George to amend a couple of points. I let him read it, not expecting him to read the whole book, which he did in 3 hours. The book is mostly about history that preceded Dietrich's time. It didn't hit me until he was well through it that George even wrote about Dietrich being executed ...hung!...on April 9, 1945! It was a severe violation of the injunction against revealing the future to those in the past.

* * *

The German theologian sat in a chair opposite his visitor, fervently poring through the paperback. Several times he glanced up and discovered Brockhoeft gazing intently at him. Finally the exasperated reader exclaimed, "John, John! How will I ever concentrate on my reading if you keep staring at me?"

"Oh! Sorry!" the other apologized. Noticing a KJV lying nearby he picked it up and busied himself with its contents. where it fell open, the left hand page began at Joshua 5:13. In his own "real time" present, Dietrich could not understand the fascination he could hold for a 1996 student of Christian history. He could only see himself as an ordinary man, not understanding that John was seeing him as a martyred saint.

Another hour passed with both men engrossed in their studies. Then a look of alarm appeared on John's face. Springing to his feet he implored, "Dietrich, please hand me that book!"

"But why this sudden outburst, John? Why such a sudden change of heart?"

"It's all history to my generation, but for yours it records details of the future. I'm not supposed to reveal these things."

"Oh, is that all you're worried about? I've already read that part. See? I'm almost finished. The part where the Nazis wring my neck? That didn't bother me, because I already knew in my spirit they would kill me before they are defeated. Don't worry about your blunder. You got away with it this time. It will change nothing. I won't change my mind. You've given me a great gift! From my perspective, you have given me a reprieve! I was expecting the Nazis to kill me within this next year! I will return to Germany a few days from now. Until this evening, until you showed me this, I would have considered it nothing less than a miracle for me still to be alive twelve months from now! So, in a way, you have given me a stay of execution! I will live until 1945. I still have almost six years to work! Praise the Lord!"

A lump began to form in John's throat. But it was not, as one might think, because of the kindness of the theologian's words toward him. It was because here was this man, this Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who knew he would be brutally executed at the age of thirty-nine, but instead of a sense of impending doom he could only rejoice in knowing he had a little extra time to serve the Lord before being slain! Brockhoeft took a couple of deep breaths as Bonhoeffer continued.

"John, I'll tell you a little secret. I won't tell this to anyone of my generation. A few weeks ago, when I began to see that I might die before the war ended, I prayed to Jesus. Do you remember the promise in the Bible which says: 'all things work together for good to them that love God, to them that are the called according to His purpose.'?"

John nodded while gasping for breath.

"Well, when I remembered that verse, at that time, I thought to myself: 'Look! I'm going to be killed! And who knows what I might have to suffer through before I am even killed!' And I wondered at first how could I apply this promise of the Bible to myself? I proclaim the whole Bible to be the Word of God, so I know it must all be true. Yet, this promise did not seem to be reconcilable to my situation. So do you know what I told Jesus?"

The listener, breathless now, only shook his head.

Bonhoeffer continued, "I told Jesus I would be willing to give Him exemption from applying the promise in my case, and I would not count it as a broken promise. So I told Jesus that if the Nazis subjected me to suffering, and my suffering worked for someone else's good, I wouldn't mind if it did not work for my good, but let it help someone else."

Brockhoeft began to wail, and shortly his beard was glistening. Shelley Shannon had said exactly the same thing. Less than three years earlier (i.e., according to our "real time"), in 1993, while Shelley was in the Wichita jail awaiting trial, she had gotten a message to John which included Bonhoeffer's almost exact same words!

John was feeling lightheaded again. Dietrich spoke on, not knowing he had lost his visitor's attention, who was now lost in a reverie revolving around his sister-in-Christ who sat in a prison cell so far away in time and space. Dietrich's voice was now heard only as background noise droning on and on saying something about... later felt foolish about my prayer...was limiting God... God is Al- mighty...who are we to limit God...my suffering ...help someone else...and God can still make it work...my good...for my good also...so ...Shelley...so encourage your friend Shelley...Shelley....

John came to with a start, shaking his head. "Huh?! Excuse me! What did you say just now, Dietrich? Did you say 'Shelley'?"

"Yes, I was...are you listening to me, John? I was asking about your friend Shelley Shannon."

"I don't understand! This is getting more confusing! I don't understand how you could know about Shelley?"

"But it's right here in front of the book! See? Inside the front cover someone has written, 'To John Brockhoeft from Shelley Shannon.'"

"Oh! Oh yes, I'd forgotten."

"Shelley is a Christian, then?"

"The most faithful of my generation."

At that moment a little door on a house-shaped clock, hanging on the wall behind Dietrich, opened. A little bird leapt out and announced, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

"It's six o'clock in the morning, John exclaimed, "And we still haven't resolved the issue! I wanted to ask you about George. Rev. Grant's publisher will be doing another printing of Third Time Around soon, and I hope to encourage him to amend these two points. I can't accuse George of blatant compromise, but there is still a hint of it here. Dietrich, what can I say to him? What would you say?"

"George is a good fellow, and we must be gentle," Dietrich exhorted. "I'd like to meet him myself. Why don't you come back tomorrow night and bring him along?"

"That's it!" John cried. "He may or may not listen to me, but it's for sure he'll receive from you. If only I can get him to come. If only he believes me when I tell him about the machine! Understand me now, Dietrich, I'm not saying George is a pacifist. I don't even think it. If I were to corner George and ask for his position on pacifism at a time like this, like your time, he would renounce it with all his heart...and he'd be sincere. But if I can get him here tomorrow night, and you can explain to us just what you told me earlier about how you converted from a pacifist to a resistance fighter I think there might be an answer for him in there somewhere!"

"It might work," Dietrich agreed.

"I better head home now. I've robbed you of a whole night's sleep. Please forgive me. I hope I haven't ruined your whole day."

"Not at all. I'll just catch a nap here. This has been a night I'll never forget."

"Nor I."

"By the way, could I hold on to this book until you return with George?"

"Please don't show it to anyone of your generation."

"Agreed."

"Sorry again about taking so much of your time."

"Nonsense. Here, I'll show you to the door."

At the front door, the theologian offered his hand to the departing visitor, who took it in his own. But the bond was too strong. The spiritual bond that transcends time between Christians was too strong, and the two flew together in an embrace.

"See you this evening."

"I'll be here."

* * *

Before we return to the scene in the pancake house you may be curious to know more fully how John came into possession of the machine. He first laid eyes on it on July 22, 1986. On that day he had participated in an anti-abortion demonstration held in front of Haskell's recently reopened abortion chamber.

The group of activists disbanding around two o'clock, he walked the couple of blocks to where his car was parked. By the time he had fastened the seat belt and adjusted the air conditioner there was a man standing alongside the car, right by the driver's side window, looking in at him with an impish grin. It was obvious the stranger wanted to say something, so John rolled his window down a few inches.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Brockhoeft. May I call you John? Please call me Jim."

John nodded. The guy looked to be about fifty years old. Some gray showed in his otherwise very dark hair. Erect bearing. Irish nose. Roman mouth. Round, cherubic face. He wore a light-weight, dark suit.

"I seem to recall you from somewhere long ago," John remarked. "Haven't we met somewhere before at some time when we were both much younger? Could we have worked somewhere together? Or could we have even served in the Navy together?"

The man named Jim laughed heartily. "No, be assured, we've never met. I just look like someone you know. I'm not from around here. I've never been from around anywhere you've ever lived."

What a strange remark! How could he know that, without knowing everywhere John had been? And if he was not from around that region, how could he even know who John was? This was strange indeed. This guy could be a fed (federal agent) trying to infiltrate the movement or looking for information about the fires.

Seeing the perplexity on John's face, Jim explained further, "We have some things in common. Like you, I'm a Christian. Also, I'm an absolutist, particularly so with the abortion issue. Another thing we're both lapidaries I'm an old rock hound with a special fondness for opals, just like you."

John had to give him credit. Even if he was an infiltrator, he surely knew how to break the ice. John's interest in the lapidary art was nothing compared to his passion for the abortion issue. In fact he had done no cutting in the previous two years since he'd gotten involved in this all consuming thing. If the guy had come on strong, saying he was an absolutist with some explosives for John, that would have been the end of the conversation right there. And anyone can claim to be a Christian. But this light-hearted little factor opened the resistance fighter right up.

"What can I do for you?" John asked.

"It's not what you can do for me, it's what I want to do for you. I have something I want to give you and something to lend you."

Here the stranger opened his hand, and John audibly gasped at the sight of what lay in his palm. It was a lightning Ridge black opal easily weighing over thirty carats, maybe forty. Although its body was black as midnight, the most intense, vivid red, orange, yellow, green blue, and purple plays of color every color of the opal spectrum flashed out from within. He had never seen a Lightning Ridge up close but has seen photos of them in The Lapidary Journal and Gem and Mineral.

"You surely know how to break the ice, pal!" John observed, stunned, and never taking his eyes off the treasure.

"Take it. Pick it up."

"Unh uh, no way. It's too scary. If I fumbled and dropped it I'd have a heart attack." But he rolled the window down all the way and the stranger reached in.

"Go ahead."

"I'm scared to pick it up," John insisted, and cupping his left hand, said, "Here. You put it in my hand."

Once the stone was in his hand, he laid it carefully on the passenger's seat, reached over, and, unlocking the door on that side, told his new friend, "Please get in."

By the time Jim had walked around and opened the door John had picked up the gem again and was turning it this way and that. From no angle were there any dead areas. It showed play of color from any angle an observer looked. You couldn't ask hydrated silicon dioxide to do any more than this specimen did.

"I don't know who you are, pal," Brockhoeft remarked, "but you couldn't have come up with a better way of talking your way into this car!"

Laughing aloud, just like his great grandfather, Jim, V, replied, "I know. Let's go get a cup of coffee."

"Is it Australian?"

"Of course."

"Coober Pedy?"

"No, Lightning Ridge."

"Lightning Ridge! I should have guessed! I've heard of stones from there going for over 5,000 bucks per carat, and, carat for carat, I don't see how any could be more precious than this one."

"Let's go get a cup of coffee," Jim repeated.

"Please bear with me a minute. I could never afford a stone like this, but let me admire and fondle it a moment. I may never again see one as nice."

"I'll trade it to you for a cup of coffee. Sure, it's a nice specimen, as nice as they come, but it's not as valuable as you think. A couple of rich pockets were discovered on the ridge, and now they're not as rare as they once were."

"Well, Jim, I don't know what kind of cruel joke this is, or what the catch is, but I intend to find out. You deserve fifty cups of coffee just for showing it to me."

So John drove them to the Greek diner on Calhoun Street. Halfway there, stopped at a red light, the driver nervously cast a sidelong glance at his passenger.

"This is all very mysterious, Jim. I hope you're not a BAT Freak."

The passenger threw back his head and laughed, at which the driver added, "At least you seem to know what I'm talking about."

"Of course," Jim replied, "I know you're a member of the Army of God, and that's what you call agents of the old BATF. No, I'm not one of them."

"This is all very disturbing how you know so much about me, and you're not even from around these parts. Where are you from?"

"Washington, D.C."

[Part two of Chapter IX]

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