There’s a line of light shining under the door. Only faintly, but she sees a narrow strip of light.
So there’s still somebody awake. Her mother, maybe? Or Grandma?
Marianne plucks up all her courage and puts her bare feet out of bed. It’s cold in the room. She pushes the covers aside. Very quietly, so as not to wake her little brother, she tiptoes to the door. Cautiously, in case the floorboards creak.
Slowly, carefully, she pushes the door handle down and quietly opens the door. She steals down the passage and into the kitchen.
There’s still a light on in the kitchen. She sits at the window and looks out into the night. It gives her the creeps, and she starts shivering in her thin nightie.
Then she notices that the door to the next room is ajar.
Her mother must have gone to the cowshed, Marianne thinks. She opens the door to the next room wide. Another door opens out of that room into the passage leading to the cowshed and the barn.
She calls for her mother. For her grandmother. But there is no answer.
The little girl goes down a long, dark feed alley. She hesitates, stops. Calls for her mother again, for her grandmother. Rather louder this time. Still no answer.
She sees the cattle in the shed chained to the iron rings of the feeding trough. The cows’ bodies move calmly. The place is lit only by an oil lamp.
Marianne sees the door to the barn standing open at the end of the feed alley.
Her mother will be in the barn. She calls for her mother again. There’s still no answer.
She goes on along the feed alley toward the barn. She stops again at the door, undecided. She can’t hear a single sound in the darkness. She takes a deep breath and goes in.
Holy St. Mary Magdalene,
pray for them!
Holy St. Catherine,
pray for them!
Holy St. Barbara,
pray for them!
All ye blessed virgins and widows,
pray for them!
All ye saints of God,
pray for them!
Be merciful unto them! Spare them, O Lord!
Be merciful unto them! Deliver them, O Lord!
Babette Kirchmeier, civil servant’s widow, age 86
Marie, ah yes, Marie.
She was my household help, yes. Well, until I went into the old folks’ home.
That’s right, my household help, Marie was. She was a good girl. A real good girl. Always did everything so neat and nice. Not like the young things now, gadding around the whole time, flirting with boys.
No, Marie wasn’t like that. A good girl, Marie was.
Not all that pretty, but good and hardworking. She kept the whole place going for me.
I’m not so good on my legs anymore, you see, that’s why I’m in the home.
I don’t have any children, and my husband died nearly fifteen years ago. It’ll be fifteen years in June, on the twenty-fourth.
Ottmar, now, he was a good man. A good man.
So Marie came to help me in the house because my legs didn’t work so well anymore. Ah, my legs, it’s a long time since they worked well. When you get old there’s a lot that doesn’t work as well as it used to, not just your legs. Growing old is no fun, you take my word for it, that’s what my mother always said. No, it’s no fun.
Once upon a time I could run like the wind. I was always going dancing with my Ottmar, God rest his soul. To the tea dance in the Odeon on Sunday afternoons. That was back before the war. Ottmar was a good dancer. We got to know each other at a dance, still in the Kaiser’s time, that was. Oh, he was a dashing fellow, my Ottmar, in his uniform. Ottmar was in the army then; he’s been dead nearly fifteen years now.
Time passes by, time passes by. I had that trouble with my hip. We’re not getting any younger, are we?
That’s when Marie came to help me in the house. She slept in the little bedroom. She didn’t ask for much, not Marie. A bed, a chair, a table, and a cupboard, that’s all she needed.
So in January, let me think now, yes, it was January when I went into the old folks’ home, because I don’t walk so well these days. Not so well at all. Yes, that’s when Marie went to her sister’s.
I didn’t know if she has a job as a maid now. But that would just suit Marie. A good hard worker. Didn’t talk much. That suited me fine, because I can’t handle those talkative young things. Chatter, chatter, chatter all day long, while the house goes to rack and ruin.
Yes, Marie was my household help, that’s right. Well, until I went into the old folks’ home. It was January I went into the old folks’ home. A good honest household help, Marie was. A real good girl. Ever so good, she was. Always did everything so neat and nice.
I think I’m getting tired. I fancy a nap now. A person needs a lot of sleep when she gets old, you know. Many old folk can’t sleep, but me, I need a lot of sleep. I always did like my sleep.
Oh, now what was it you were asking me? I’ve quite forgotten, dear me, it’s old age, you know. You were asking me about Marie. Yes, yes, Marie. She was a good girl, Marie was, willing and hardworking.
What’s she doing these days?
Isn’t she at her sister’s?
Oh, I’m so tired, I really fancy a nap now. You know, when a person gets old she needs her sleep.
Winter refuses to give way to spring this year. It is much colder than usual this season. There’s been alternating rain and snow since early March. The gray of the morning mists lingers all day.
At last, on Friday morning, it clears slightly. The dark, gray-black clouds lift a little. Now and then the cloud cover breaks entirely, and the first rays of the spring sun shine tentatively through.
At midday, however, the sky grows dark again, and in the afternoon rain begins once more. It is so gloomy that you might think the day was already coming to an end, and night was falling.
Two figures, clad entirely in black, are on the move in this dim light. They are making for the only farm anywhere near. One of them is pushing a bicycle, the other carries a backpack. The farmer, who has just left the house to go to the sheds and stables, prudently lets his dog off its leash. Only when the two figures have almost reached the farm does he see that they are both women.
He whistles the dog back and holds it firmly by the collar.
One of the two women, the one with the backpack, asks for directions. They’re looking for the Danner family’s farm in Tannöd, she says. They’ve lost their way in the poor light. Can he help them? Does he know how to get to the farm?
“Over there, beyond the last field, turn left into the woods and you can’t miss it,” he replies.
The two of them go on. The man puts his dog on its chain again and thinks no more about the couple.
Traudl Krieger, sister of Marie the maid, age 36
Early in the morning that Friday, I helped our Marie pack all her belongings. She didn’t have much, enough to fill a backpack and a bag, too, that’s all. No, it really wasn’t much.
I’d promised to go with her when she started her new job. She didn’t want to go out there alone, because she didn’t know the way. So I gave her my promise. Gave her my promise . . .
It was fine first thing in the morning. But it was midday before we started off at last. The weather was nothing special by then. My mother-in-law came to look after the kids while I was gone.