"Attention must be drawn here to the fact that in the history of no other German foundation of our Order did the people support us so generously and wholeheartedly as did the citizens of Schwarzenfeld and the neighboring villages. This goodwill has continued even in the dark days after the Miesberg monastery had been taken from us, and it was dangerous to assist us. In spite of it all, they said: 'As long as we have something to eat, you won't starve.'" — Chronicle of the Passionist German Foundation.
On April 16, 1941, nightfall brought closure to a day of shattered hopes. The Passionist Foundation retained ownership over the Miesberg's gilded pilgrimage church, miniscule sacristies, and adjoining choir chapel, though the Miesbergkloster, a symbol of faith and friendship between the Passionists and Schwarzenfeld's population, was all but lost. Specifically chosen because of its proximity to a church (which Allied planes avoided during bombing runs), Father Viktor's third Passionist monastery was destined to shelter an innocuously named "Continental European Research Center for East Areas." In reality, the organization was a clandestine laboratory operated by the Berlin Technical University's Center for Atomic Research, and within the Miesberg's confines, Nazi scientists conducted experiments contributing to stealth radar and other technological advances promising "final victory" over Allied forces gradually liberating Europe.
News of the Passionist eviction spread throughout Schwarzenfeld, and parishioners rushed to assist the Fathers who provided for their spiritual and physical needs eight years ago. Their loyalty, devotion, and courage in supporting the Passionists touched Father Viktor. After evaluating his options — withdrawing to Maria Schutz, returning home to America and acknowledging defeat against circumstances beyond his control, or protesting the Nazi occupation and risking arrest — he arrived at a decision that inspired his flock in Schwarzenfeld:
"Excluded from our Monastery and wonderful garden," Father Viktor explains in a 1946 correspondence, "[Father Paul and I] took up our abode during the day in the [Miesberg church flower sacristy] ... This room was about a meter wide at one end and a little over two meters at the other end ... After taking all necessary measurements we found this room could be made livable for us. There was sufficient room for a chair, a steep stairway that had to be constructed, and a narrowed bed. This all had to be done on the quiet, so that the Nazis would not know that we were to live there ... When the [Bishop of Regensburg, Dr. Michael Buchberger] saw our living quarters, he called it a hole worse than anything found even in a jail cell. But we considered them better than nothing and lived there fairly content for about four years. The Nazi powers were outwitted, we lived there without them knowing where we were [living in the town]."
Historical researcher Gary Koch discusses the impact of his granduncle's decision to remain in Schwarzenfeld:
"Father Viktor was a tremendous influence on a group of people known as 'Die Schwarzen,' or 'The Blacks,' a term from the era describing devout Catholics who supported the clergy despite political pressure to abandon their faith. Eyewitnesses say that, when Viktor preached at the pulpit, he was charismatic, very full of conviction. He had an ongoing relationship with the Schwarzen, and would visit their homes on a weekly basis. Moreover, his decision to remain in Schwarzenfeld, living under the most austere conditions, set an example of peaceful defiance that the Schwarzen admired and tried to follow in their own ways. On one occasion they publicly protested Nazi attempts to remove crosses from schoolrooms. One of the most notable instances of dissension happens during the events in 1944."
In July 1944, Fathers Viktor and Paul received a letter from a former Passionist Father impressed into the German army. Elated by its content, Father Paul read aloud an excerpt to one hundred enraptured parishioners attending Sunday mass: while stationed in Italy, the soldier read newspaper articles describing Marian apparitions visiting children in the village of Bergamo. During Her latest appearance, the Blessed Virgin promised that on July 13, 1944, "something will happen that would bring peace to the whole world, and it will be a sign from the Virgin." Within twenty-four hours, typewritten copies of the letter circulated around Schwarzenfeld, its message providing grist for a Catholic rumor mill. The purported sign, citizens agreed, was Hitler's assassination, which would precipitate an end to ration cards and a war dividing them from loved ones on the front lines.
Local gossip wafting through Schwarzenfeld's streets inevitably drifted into Gestapo headquarters, where Nazi officials deemed the news an insidious work of enemy propaganda. On July 13, while women and children awaited "the sign," commotion in the streets sent them running outside, where they gawked at an unexpected spectacle: Gestapo agents were parading a chained Father Paul through the town. Father Viktor and other bystanders pointed toward the evening sky, where spiraling rings were rotating around the sun. Frantically gesturing at the extraordinary celestial event, they emphasized that this was the predicted sign, though Gestapo agents dismissed it as a phenomenon resulting from natural causes and proceeded to drive away, taking Father Paul with them.
"Now I was alone," Father Viktor recalled in his correspondence to Rome, "absolutely no one to help me, and just recovering from a severe sickness ... It was a trying time, not only the work but the worry about my fellow religious in jail and not knowing what might happen to him. Father Paul was kept in prison for six months without trial of any kind and then let go ... When he walked in on us at noon one day our joy was unfounded, and we certainly said a fervent 'Te Deum.' This was January 1945."
As advancing Allied forces descended upon Germany's borders, Fathers Viktor and Paul prayed for peace and the swift restoration of their German-Austrian Passionist Foundation. But one divine test of faith remained. Four months after their reunion, the Passionists and their flock would face a spiritual trial surpassing their wartime ordeals, inevitably culminating in a confrontation with the horrific result of Nazi hatred.