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Authors: Andrea Maria Schenkel
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betraying the Fatherland.
I walked home from Walch. Took me almost a week before I was finally back. The whole country seemed to be on the move after the Nazis cracked up. I saw ragged figures, dead people, hanged men.
But a horror like we saw at that farm, there’s no words for it. The way they were butchered—like animals.
What kind of man could he be? I mean, it was a monster, a lunatic.
And can you tell me, why the children too? Why those poor little mites, I ask you? Why?
Thou who lentest Thine ear to the thief on the cross,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who fillest the elect with joy in Thy mercy,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who holdest the keys of Death and Hell,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst liberate our parents, relations and benefactors from the pains of Purgatory,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst more particularly show mercy to those souls of whom no one on Earth thinks,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst spare and forgive them all,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst satisfy their longing for You right soon,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst take them into the company of Thine elect and bless them forever,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
T he room is bathed in faint light.
He can’t tell whether the curtains are drawn or not.
He sees the room before him immersed in shimmering, milky whiteness. As if through a veil as thin as gossamer.
He sees the furniture of the room. The chest of drawers, dark brown oak, a heavy chest with three drawers. Each drawer has two brass handles. They are dulled, worn with use. You have to hold both handles of the drawers, that’s the only way to pull them open. They are heavy drawers.
A picture above the chest of drawers. A guardian angel leading two children across a wooden bridge. The children walk hand in hand. A boy and a girl. A stream races under the bridge at the bottom of the picture. The guardian angel, wearing a billowing white robe, has spread its arms protectively over the children. Barefoot, the angel is leading them over the wild torrent. A mountain range casts its shadow in the background. White snow can be seen on the mountain peaks.
The picture frame is gilded, the gilt is beginning to flake off in many places. The white of the frame beneath shows through.
He knows that the bed is on the far side of the room. With the bedside table next to it.
Both made of the same dark brown oak.
A death cross stands on the bedside table, with candleholders to its left and right. The candles are lit.
A girl lies on the bed. Little more than a child. Her eyes closed. Her face translucent, pale. Her hair, plaited into braids, hangs far down over her shoulders. A myrtle wreath has been placed around her forehead.
Hands folded on her breast. Someone, perhaps his wife, perhaps the woman who came to lay out the body, has put a death cross into her folded hands.
The girl wears a white dress. White stockings. Her feet are in white stockings, no shoes. Her figure seems to be slowly dissolving in the light of the room.
“Look at her, oh, do look, she is an angel now.”
He hears the voice of a woman. His wife? Feels his throat tightening more and more. Notices the nausea rising gradually inside him.
“She’s an angel now. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The nausea almost takes his breath away.
He turns and runs to the door.
Almost tears the door off its hinges, or so it seems to him. Hurries downstairs. All he wants is to get away. Out across the fields and meadows to the woods.
There he drops to the ground. He lies with his face in the cool moss. With every breath he takes in the cold, earthy aroma of the woods. A scream rises from deep inside him. The scream makes its way out. He screams in his despair. There is nothing human about the scream, he screams in despair like a wounded animal.
The scream wakes him. He sits up in bed, bathed in sweat.
The dream is repeated night after night.
I walked home from Walch. Took me almost a week before I was finally back. The whole country seemed to be on the move after the Nazis cracked up. I saw ragged figures, dead people, hanged men.
But a horror like we saw at that farm, there’s no words for it. The way they were butchered—like animals.
What kind of man could he be? I mean, it was a monster, a lunatic.
And can you tell me, why the children too? Why those poor little mites, I ask you? Why?
Thou who lentest Thine ear to the thief on the cross,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who fillest the elect with joy in Thy mercy,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who holdest the keys of Death and Hell,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst liberate our parents, relations and benefactors from the pains of Purgatory,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst more particularly show mercy to those souls of whom no one on Earth thinks,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst spare and forgive them all,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst satisfy their longing for You right soon,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
Thou who wouldst take them into the company of Thine elect and bless them forever,
we beg You, hear our prayer.
T he room is bathed in faint light.
He can’t tell whether the curtains are drawn or not.
He sees the room before him immersed in shimmering, milky whiteness. As if through a veil as thin as gossamer.
He sees the furniture of the room. The chest of drawers, dark brown oak, a heavy chest with three drawers. Each drawer has two brass handles. They are dulled, worn with use. You have to hold both handles of the drawers, that’s the only way to pull them open. They are heavy drawers.
A picture above the chest of drawers. A guardian angel leading two children across a wooden bridge. The children walk hand in hand. A boy and a girl. A stream races under the bridge at the bottom of the picture. The guardian angel, wearing a billowing white robe, has spread its arms protectively over the children. Barefoot, the angel is leading them over the wild torrent. A mountain range casts its shadow in the background. White snow can be seen on the mountain peaks.
The picture frame is gilded, the gilt is beginning to flake off in many places. The white of the frame beneath shows through.
He knows that the bed is on the far side of the room. With the bedside table next to it.
Both made of the same dark brown oak.
A death cross stands on the bedside table, with candleholders to its left and right. The candles are lit.
A girl lies on the bed. Little more than a child. Her eyes closed. Her face translucent, pale. Her hair, plaited into braids, hangs far down over her shoulders. A myrtle wreath has been placed around her forehead.
Hands folded on her breast. Someone, perhaps his wife, perhaps the woman who came to lay out the body, has put a death cross into her folded hands.
The girl wears a white dress. White stockings. Her feet are in white stockings, no shoes. Her figure seems to be slowly dissolving in the light of the room.
“Look at her, oh, do look, she is an angel now.”
He hears the voice of a woman. His wife? Feels his throat tightening more and more. Notices the nausea rising gradually inside him.
“She’s an angel now. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The nausea almost takes his breath away.
He turns and runs to the door.
Almost tears the door off its hinges, or so it seems to him. Hurries downstairs. All he wants is to get away. Out across the fields and meadows to the woods.
There he drops to the ground. He lies with his face in the cool moss. With every breath he takes in the cold, earthy aroma of the woods. A scream rises from deep inside him. The scream makes its way out. He screams in his despair. There is nothing human about the scream, he screams in despair like a wounded animal.
The scream wakes him. He sits up in bed, bathed in sweat.
The dream is repeated night after night.
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