The Brave Nun

It was autumn, and that damp wind that runs through Budějovice’s lanes that evening also flowed through the nave of the monastery church. It is a cold that comes off the stone and cannot be driven off by fire or prayer. Anyone who has ever knelt in such a church in November knows exactly what is meant.

Sister Aloisie did not notice it.

She knelt alone, absorbed in prayer, eyes fixed on the image of the Mother of God. The light of the eternal lamp moved across her face.

Otherwise the church was black.

That is why she did not hear that she was not alone.

From the darkness behind her three hooded figures stepped out. Before she could turn, strong arms seized her. One hand went to her mouth, another to her shoulders to force her down. Aloisie felt the coarse cloth of a cloak, a cold smell of damp and metal, and in that moment understood they had not come to pray.

They had come to rob.

She did not scream. There was no one else in the whole church, and beyond the walls the town slept. Her breath caught for a moment, but she kept her voice calm.

“What do you ask of me in this sacred place?”

The answer came rough and without hesitation:

“Give us the keys to the Marian treasure.”

Aloisie glanced toward the image of the Virgin Mary. It was no longer only her life. These men were reaching for treasure entrusted to the church, and their hands did not stop even before a holy place.

She lowered her eyes as if submitting.

“If you want treasures, follow me,” she said. “What you ask is of little worth. In the sacristy you will find the true treasures you desire.”

At first the hooded men did not believe her. One warned that at the least suspicion she would die. Aloisie did not flinch. She spoke quietly but firmly, and that very calm convinced them.

A strange procession set out for the sacristy door. In front walked one thief with a lit candle; behind him Aloisie; on either side the remaining two with drawn daggers. Candlelight trembled on the walls, stretched their shadows and for a moment flashed on the metal in the thieves’ hands.

In the sacristy there really was what she had promised: a quantity of gold and silver liturgical vessels. The men fell on them without hesitation.

Aloisie stood aside. She watched them and waited.

Then she raised her head toward a place high under the ceiling.

“Listen,” she said. “A far greater treasure is up there. In that cupboard.”

The thieves fell silent. All three looked up. High on the wall a small cupboard did hang — so high that no one could reach it without a ladder.

“Have you a key?” one asked.

“I have not.”

“And are you telling the truth?”

Aloisie pointed to the vessels spread before them. “Did I lie to you before? You have seen for yourselves.”

That was the right answer, because there was not a word of falsehood in it. The thieves began to debate how to open the cupboard. They did not take their eyes off the nun. At last the strongest decided to set up a ladder and force the lock.

Two men climbed up. The third stayed below to watch Aloisie. But the lock held firm. Above there was panting, metal striking metal and irritated curses. The men strained in vain, and the longer the cupboard resisted, the more impatient they grew. The guard under the ladder fidgeted, craned his neck and at last could not bear it.

He jumped onto the ladder after them.

That was the moment Aloisie had waited for.

In one movement she seized the ladder and slammed it against the cupboard. The thieves above staggered, cursed and for a moment lost their balance. Aloisie did not look back. She ran through the sacristy, burst into the corridor and slammed the heavy door behind her.

The bar fell with a hollow thud.

Inside there was shouting. Someone struck the door with a fist, then a shoulder. The wood shook but held.

Aloisie ran to the bell rope. Her fingers trembled as she gripped it, but she did not let go. She pulled once, twice, a third time, and above the monastery the bell rang out.

In night-time Budějovice a bell at such an hour meant one thing: danger.

The sound spilled over the roofs, bounced off house walls and carried down empty streets. Lights began to appear in windows. Doors opened; people ran out still half asleep; someone called to neighbours, another already ran for the watch. Footsteps quickly converged on the monastery.

The thieves were trapped.

In the sacristy they meanwhile understood what had happened. They tried again and again to force the door, but the bar held from outside. They ran between the walls, searching for another way, their voices echoing off the stone. At last they set the ladder to a window. One climbed up and began to squeeze out through the shattered frame.

Then armed burghers and the town watch arrived.

Aloisie pointed to the door. Together they slid the bar aside and burst in just as the first thief gripped the window. In the confusion they kicked the ladder from under him. The man fell to the stone floor and lay still.

The remaining two fought, but yielded to superior numbers. They were bound and handed over to the town court.

Before the court it became clear who they were: dangerous robbers who had lurked in the surrounding forests and terrorised the whole region. The town court sentenced them to death, and the sentence was carried out on the main square.

According to the legend their likenesses were then, as a warning, linked to the three stone faces on the wall of the town Solnice, so that everyone who passed would see them.

Sister Aloisie, however, did not long survive that night.

No one struck her a blow. She escaped without a single scratch, and yet from that terrible night she wasted away. Her strength faded quietly, day by day. Like a ghost she walked the church corridors, spoke less and less, until at last she died.

She was sincerely mourned and buried in the monastery cemetery.

And yet, it is said, she never quite left the monastery.