There still wasn’t a soul in sight at the farm. I was getting to feel the whole thing was eerie. So I left the door of the shack where they kept the root-slicing machine open. First, that gave me more light to work by, and, second, anyone could see straight off that I was busy repairing the engine.
I’d almost finished, was just about to screw one last nut back in place when it slips clean through my fingers and rolls toward the cistern.
There was this old cistern in the shack, for keeping milk cool. You stood the full milk churns in it. Thank God there wasn’t any water in the cistern, it was empty.
So down I climb into the cistern. It’s not deep, comes maybe up to my thighs if that, and I fish out my nut.
At the very moment I was bending down to feel around for the nut, I thought a shadow scurried past. I couldn’t see it; it was more of a feeling. A voice inside you saying look, there’s someone there, even if you can’t see whoever it is. But it’s there, you feel it, there’s somebody there.
So I’m up and out of the cistern in a flash.
“Hey, anyone there? Hello!” I shouted.
No answer, though. I’d not been feeling too comfortable before, now the farm seemed downright creepy. And the dog barking and barking all the time, though I couldn’t see it.
So I screwed the nut on as fast as I could and packed up my tools. Now to give the engine a trial run, and then I’d be off double quick.
I fit the padlock back where it was before. Put my stuff on the bike and set off through the middle of the farmyard.
As I was pushing the bike around the house, there still wasn’t a soul in sight. But the door of the old machinery shed was open, and it hadn’t been open before. I’m certain of that.
So I think to myself, maybe there’s someone there after all. And I leave my bike again and go a few steps over to the shed.
“Hello, anyone there?” I called, but no answer this time, either. Nothing.
I didn’t want to go any farther into the shed, it somehow didn’t seem right to me.
I went to the front door of the house again and shook it, but, like I said, it was locked.
Nothing would have kept me at that farm any longer. I was glad to get away from the place.
I must have finished the repair just after two, because on the way back to the village I heard the church clock strike the half hour.
Did I see anyone else in the fields? No, not a soul. Only a couple of crows. No wonder in that weather. It had started raining again, a light drizzle. I cycled as if the Devil himself was after me.
All the way back from the farm I kept thinking, suppose there really was someone there; he’d have been bound to hear the sound of the engine’s trial run, couldn’t miss it.
I must have been wrong, there wasn’t anyone there, but that shadow, the voice inside me, the odd feeling, well, I don’t know.
When I got to my next job in Einhausen, I told them the story, because I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I’d been over five hours at the Danner farm in Tannöd, and no one came along. Five hours alone at that farm without setting eyes on a living soul.
Frau Brunner in Einhausen thought it was very strange, too. “If only because of the little boy they have there. A child like that has to sleep, has to eat something,” she said. “You can’t just go wandering around like gypsies, not with a small child.”
But all her husband said was, “They’ll be getting in wood, that takes time.”
The knife. Where’s the knife, his pocketknife? He always has it on him, in his back trouser pocket. It’s been a fixed habit since the day he was first given that knife.
He can still remember every detail; he got it the day he was confirmed. A present from his sponsor at his confirmation. A clasp knife, a beautiful, useful knife with a brown handle. It was in a box. He remembers every detail.
He remembers the gift wrapping of the box. Thin tissue paper printed with flowers, garden flowers in bright colors. And the package was done up with a red bow. He was so eager to undo it, he tore the paper. A brown cardboard box came into sight. His hands trembled with excitement and delight as he opened that box. And there it lay, a pocketknife. His pocketknife. From that day on, he proudly took the knife around with him everywhere he went. It was his most precious possession.
None of the other village boys had a knife like that. He still sensed the good feeling he had when he took the knife in his hand or just had it somewhere on him. He often liked to hold it, passing it from one hand to the other. It gave him a sense of security. Yes, security.
Over the years, the knife became worn with much use. But the feeling stayed with him.
And now he’s been looking for the knife all day. When did he last use it? Where had he left it?
He goes through this last day again in his mind. Slowly, as if emerging from the mist, a picture comes before his eyes. He sees himself, knife in hand, cutting off a piece of smoked meat. Sees himself putting the pocketknife down beside the plate with the meat on it.
He feels uneasiness rise slowly inside him. His heart is racing; his heart’s in his mouth. He didn’t put the knife back in his pocket. He was sure of that. He left the knife there. His knife. His knife is in the larder next to the smoked meat. He sees it there in his mind’s eye quite clearly. He feels he only has to reach for it.
Panic seizes him. He must go back to the house. He must retrieve the knife, his knife. He can’t wait until evening, can’t wait for nightfall. That will be hours, it will be too long. So much can happen before evening.
Why didn’t he think of that this morning? He was feeding the animals, he was in a hurry. He left without checking that everything was back in its proper place. That was his mistake. Why didn’t he think of it until now? Never mind that, there’s nothing for it, he must go to the house. He must run the risk of entering the place in broad daylight.
He sees the bicycle leaning against a fruit tree. Sees the open door of the shack where they keep the root-slicing machine. He hears someone humming, whistling. Cautiously, he comes closer to the shack. He peers in. The man is so busy repairing the machine that he doesn’t notice him. From where he lurks by the door, he watches the unknown man.
Something drops from the man’s hand, falls on the floor, rolls over the ground and into the cistern. The stranger curses, looks searchingly around. Finally he climbs into the cistern.
This is the moment he’s been waiting for. He hurries past the open door. He’s already around the corner of the house before the other man can climb out of the cistern. Takes the key out of his jacket pocket and disappears through the door. The pocketknife is right where he left it. He waits a few more minutes. They seem to him like an eternity. He wants to wait for a good moment to leave the house again. The engine of the root-slicing machine begins turning over. He hears the noise. Quickly, he leaves the house without being seen.
Dagmar, daughter of Johann Sterzer, age 20
It was that Tuesday, about two thirty. We’d just gone out into the garden, me and my mother. To tidy up the beds.
As soon as we’re out in the garden, the mechanic from the agricultural machinery firm comes by on his bike. I know him; he came here once to repair one of our machines.
He braked right by our garden fence. Stopped but didn’t get off his bike. He just called to us from the fence, said if we saw Danner to tell him his machine was working fine again. It took him five hours, he said, he’d be sending the invoice in the post.