By Thy baptism and Thy holy fasting,
deliver them, O Lord!
By Thy boundless humility,
deliver them, O Lord!
In the morning he usually gets up before dawn.
Slips on his pants and goes down the corridor to the kitchen.
Once there, he gets the fire in the stove going with a few logs of wood.
Fills the little blue enamel pan and puts it on the stove.
Washes his face quickly with cold water from the kitchen tap.
Waits a few minutes for the water in the pan to come to the boil.
The can of chicory coffee stands on the shelf above the stove. He moves the pan of simmering water to one side and adds two spoonfuls of ground coffee. He turns, takes his cup from the kitchen dresser on the opposite wall, gets the tea strainer out of the drawer. He pours the coffee into the cup through the strainer. Crumbles a slice of bread into the liquid to make a mush. He sits down at the table in the corner of the room with his cup, spoons the soaked bread out of the coffee. Sitting in front of the window, with the door behind him, he looks out into the darkness.
In summer he likes to sit on the bench behind his house and drink his coffee there. He listens to the birds’ dawn chorus in the air that is still cool and pure. Bird after bird strikes up its song. Always in the same order, never changing. From where he sits he can hear them singing while the sun rises above the horizon.
He empties his cup and puts it down in the kitchen. The farm is awake now, and he goes about his day’s work. Usually in silence at this early hour. Alone with himself and his thoughts. By the time day is clearly distinct from night, those precious moments of leisure are long past.
That’s in summer.
In winter, he sits at the kitchen window where he is sitting now, looking out, impatient for the days to lengthen soon, so that he can enjoy his daily morning ritual again.
Hermann Müllner, teacher, age 35
I don’t know that I can help you much, because I didn’t arrive here until the start of this school year. I was appointed to this school in early September. And there’s been so much to do, I haven’t yet had time to get to know the country people out here better.
I teach the Year Two children all subjects except Religious Instruction. Our parish priest Father Meissner teaches them that.
Little Maria-Anna, that was her real name, was in my class.
She was a quiet pupil, very quiet. Rather reluctant to speak up in class. Seemed a little dreamy. Not particularly good at spelling, stumbled over the words slightly when she read aloud. Arithmetic, yes, she was rather better at arithmetic. Otherwise nothing much about her struck me.
Her best friend, as far as I know, was Betty. Betty sat beside her. Now and then the girls whispered to each other in class, the way girls do with their friends. Girls always have a great deal to talk about, so their attention sometimes wanders.
But when I told them not to do it, they were quiet at once.
I noticed little Maria-Anna’s absence at once on the Saturday. That’s why I asked the rest of the class whether anyone knew where the child was. Unfortunately no one did. When she still didn’t show up for lessons on Monday, I made a note of it in the class register.
It was just the same as other school days. We said morning prayers at the beginning of lessons, as we do every day, and as always we remembered in our prayers those pupils who were absent because of illness.
That’s perfectly normal, we always do it; it’s nothing out of the ordinary. After all, at that point I still had no idea how important our prayers for little Maria-Anna were.
Sometimes pupils don’t turn up for school, but usually their parents write an excuse note afterward, or, if the child has a brother or sister at the school, then the note comes on the first day a boy or girl is absent, explaining why.
So I decided that if there was still no excuse note for the girl on Tuesday I’d cycle out to Tannöd and her grandparents’ farm. I was planning to go as soon as school was over that Tuesday, but then something happened to keep me here. Ever since I’ve been wondering whether maybe I ought to have cycled out earlier. But would that have helped little Maria-Anna? I don’t know.
Ludwig Eibl, postman, age 32
The Danner family’s farm is almost at the end of my route. I’ve been doing the same route these last six months. I pass the place almost every day. Well, certainly three times a week. Because old Danner takes the local newspaper, and that comes out three times a week. On Monday, on Wednesday and on Friday.
If there’s no one in I’m supposed just to leave their post by the window next to the front door, that’s what old Danner agreed with me.
So I was out there on the Monday, and when no one came to the door I left the mail where we’d agreed. I looked in through the window, too, but there wasn’t anyone around.
It happens now and then. I mean, it happens there’s no one at home. No, it’s not unusual. That time of year, folk are often out chopping wood. Everyone’s needed then, nobody stays on the farm.
The dog, yes, could be it barked. Yes, I’m sure it barked. But that’s all I can remember. I mean, dogs always bark when I arrive. I don’t listen anymore. All part of a postman’s job.
When I got back on my bike I did turn around once, checking that my bag was balanced on the carrier properly. When it’s getting empty it easily slips. So when I looked around, yes, I saw the house again.
Was there any smoke coming out of the chimney? What questions you do ask! I’ve no idea if there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Didn’t notice anything.
Took no notice of any of it anyway.
You want me to be honest, I didn’t much like them at that farm. Old Danner was a suspicious curmudgeon. A loner. His wife, Frau Danner, she was the same. Not a bundle of laughs, neither of them.
Well, what’d you expect? Bet you Frau Danner didn’t have an easy life with that husband of hers.
Now his daughter, Barbara Spangler, she’s a real looker, but made in the same mold as her parents.
Oh yes, I know the rumors about the Danners, how they keep everything in the family, even their children. Who doesn’t know what folk say? And being a postman you get told this and that, but if you was always to believe everything you hear . . .
Tell you what, I couldn’t care less who fathered Barbara’s two kids.
I’d have my hands full if I stopped to bother with other folks’ business. No good asking me, you’ll have to try someone else. I deliver the post and I keep well out of the rest of it.
The weather has been much better all day than for the last few weeks. No more snow, and the wind has died down. Now and then a few drops of rain fall. There’s a milky-white veil over the landscape. Mist, typical for this time of year. The first swathes of it are drifting over from the outskirts of the woods toward the meadow and the house. It’s late afternoon, and the day will soon be coming to an end. Dusk is slowly gathering.
He walks toward the house. The post is stuck between the metal bars over the window beside the front door. If there’s no one at home, the postman always leaves the post here. It meant they didn’t need a mailbox. And it’s only occasionally that there’s no one at all at home on the farm. Usually someone is there to take the post in, and, if not, then there’s the window next to the door.
A newspaper is stuck between the two bars and the window pane, that’s all. He puts it under his arm, takes the front-door key out of his jacket pocket. A large, heavy, old-fashioned key made of iron. It shines blue-black with much use over the years. He puts the key in the lock and opens the door of the house.