“No. I’m a city girl. I’ve visited family who owned farms, but I think they’re gone now.”
“Gone?” Otto asked again.
“Yes. I grew up in Neisse, but my family was originally from the area formerly known as Upper Silesia,” she said. “My father was killed in the summer of 1932, during the protests. A random grenade.”
She looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “My mother went to live with her sister in München when my brother enlisted two years ago. I haven’t heard from him since early last year. I fear the worst.”
She raised her head and locked eyes with Otto. Tears trickled down her smooth cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, the pink on her cheeks deepening. She pushed the tears away with a knuckle and smiled shyly. “That was too much information, wasn’t it?”
“My dear. We are saddened to hear of your loss, and your hardship,” Hildegard said as she reached to pat Ilse-Renata’s hand. “Here, we are family. You must never fret about what is said.”
Paul cleared his throat, making a mental note to investigate the whereabouts of Ilse-Renata’s bother, and took control of the conversation. “Speaking of sausage,” he said, “I have orders to return with fresh provisions.”
He quirked his lips in a half-grin, before continuing sheepishly. “The price of my furlough …” He shrugged and added, “That is, uncle, if you have anything to spare.”
Otto smiled, reaching toward Paul, and slapped him on the shoulder with an open hand. “Of course! We’ll put together a hamper of fresh produce, some cheese, and cured meats. Such a small price to pay for a visit from our brave soldier!”
Their conversation changed to Breslau and whether it remained safe for civilians to stay in the city. Otto noted that few cities in the east were safe.
“Many folks, especially women, are moving toward Dresden and Berlin, seeking a safe-haven,” he said. “Food in those areas is scarce. At least we have food, and we’ve been shipping the surplus to Bayreuth at every opportunity.”
“Uncle, I’m sure everyone in Bayreuth is appreciative,” Paul said.
“I wonder, Ilse-Renata,” Otto said, clapping his hands together, “could you be talked into a little hard labour? I’m sure Hildegard would welcome extra hands with the packing.” He looked to Hildegard and she nodded her agreement. “And Paul, perhaps you’d help me with the butchering?”
“Of course!” Paul and Ilse-Renata answered in unison.
“Then, if you like,” Otto said, looking directly at Ilse-Renata, “You can travel with us to Bavaria. If we can’t find you work when we get there, I’m confident my brother-in-law, Paul’s father, will know what to do.”
Ilse-Renata thanked them for their generosity but declined. “I am happy to help while we’re here. But, I must return to Breslau and continue my work. I promised Herr Kobelev that I would stay with him so long as we remain safe.”
“Very well,” Hildegard said. “But you must come to us if you feel you are in danger.”
In the following days, Paul helped Otto with the slaughter and closure of the farm, and Ilse-Renata worked with Hildegard, packing the last of the household goods and learning how to make sausage.
“Our sausage is renowned, you know,” Hildegard said, proudly enlightening Ilse-Renata. “People all around look for our sausage in the shops. We even shipped to Amsterdam four times a year before the conflict started,” she said sadly. “If this is to be our last batch for a while, we must make it the best!”
She straightened to a taller self, as if determined to make it happen, and used a corner of her apron to dry a tear threatening to escape her eye.
“How silly of me,” she said, appearing embarrassed. “We have no time for emotions. We have work to do!”
When they were not working, the older couple rested or slept. In the afternoon, while his aunt and uncle napped, Paul took Ilse-Renata to explore outdoors.
“I will have to stow my memories deep inside,” Paul said with a husky voice and a hand on his heart. “I don’t know when I’ll see the farm again.”
He inhaled deeply, casting his dark eyes about the snow-dusted fields and buildings that had always meant home to him. “The sounds, the smells. A city smells different, and here it is quiet, even at its noisiest.”
Ilse-Renata smiled at him, her eyes sparkling to hear him remember.
“So many events: my father teaching my friends and me to be good soldiers”—he pointed toward a small, leafless forest—“planting, harvesting. So many memories. Tucked here.” He shook his head and patted his chest again. “I don’t want to forget any of it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THEY WANDERED THROUGHOUT the farm lands and visited a few neighbours who remained. On the last afternoon of his leave, when the sun peeked from behind threatening, grey clouds, he and Ilse-Renata walked down the frosty laneway toward the yellow standard marking the entrance to the manor. He stopped, stroking the post. Flakes of dried paint fell away.
“What is it?” Ilse-Renata asked. “This post means something to you, doesn’t it?”
“Uh huh,” Paul answered. He looked at Ilse-Renata then. Looked at her hazel eyes. So trusting.
“Come,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. Taking her hand, he added, “I want to show you something.”
He led her up the drive to the front of the manor, fished in the inside pocket of the brown corduroy jacket that he always wore on the farm, and pulled out a key.
“Paul, what are you doing?” She looked about, as if half-expecting someone to jump out from behind a bush and reprimand them for trespassing.
“This house belongs to my family,” Paul said. “It was my family’s home, until Papa moved us all to Bayreuth in 1939. He was a soldier in the Great War, and always he worried about our safety.”
He closed the door behind them. “Come. I’ll take you on a tour.”
They wandered through each room, and he shared his family’s history and stories. “I could write a book about events that happened in each room. We lived here for so long.”
“Since when?”
“My great-grandfather bought the house in 1865,” he said, concluding his tour and leading Ilse-Renata back to the front door again. “Every generation since then has lived here. Some married and moved away, like my father’s sister, Tante Marie, but always a generation of Langes has lived here: until 1939.”
He opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. “And we still own it, of course,” he said, holding up the key. “Hopefully, when the war ends, we’ll be able to move back. Or at least some of us.” He paused, turning around to look at the crest.
“Why ‘hopefully’?” Ilse-Renata asked.
“Well,” he answered, contemplating his next words. “It will depend largely on who occupies this land after the war, and whether the house survives any bombings in the meantime.”
Paul hesitated, as if deep in thought, then said, “I’ve told you so many stories this afternoon. Have you space for one more?”
“Try me,” she said, encouraging him to continue.
“My grandfather told me that each time a Lange soldier went off to battle, he would place his hand on this crest.”
To illustrate, he reached up and put his hand on the crest that rested above the lintel.
“It’s as if there’s a connection to the past. As if each soldier draws on the experience of the others to keep him safe. To bring him home.”
Paul examined her face for understanding. “I’m sure that sounds silly.” He dropped his hand from the crest, keeping his eyes focussed on it. “Papa told me that each time he prepared to report for duty during the Great War, he would put his hand on it. Sort of … take it with him. He said it kept him grounded and focussed during battle. When he’d come home on leave, he would put his hand on it again. Before he did anything else. He said that it wasn’t until he felt that crest in his hand that he could believe that he was home, and safe.”
“The connection between the soldi
ers in your family and that crest,” Ilse-Renata said, staring up at it, “is indeed a powerful story. I’m glad you saved it for the last. I’ll always remember it.” She spoke quietly, so as not to break the spell that Paul’s words had created for her.
They stood on the doorstep amicably for a minute of heartbeats. Then Paul reached up with both hands, yanked the crest hard, and stepped backward as the fastenings gave way to hold it in his hands.
“Just in case,” he said bashfully, realizing his destructive impulse. “I want Papa to have this in Bayreuth. So Lange soldiers will always find their way home safely. I’ll ask Uncle Otto to take it with him.”
“Paul Lange! You are truly a romantic!” Ilse-Renata said, teasing him.
“I guess I am.” He grinned. “Let me show you,” he said, stepping down two steps and turning to face her. Then he wrapped his arms around her, the crest in one hand, and kissed her soundly.
Inhaling deeply, they parted and laughed, their breath floating between them on the frosty air, mingling and spiralling upward into the late afternoon light.
“We should get back,” Paul said, gazing into her hazel eyes. “My aunt and uncle will be wondering where we are.” He took her hand again and led her down the stairs, along the drive to the lane, and back to the Schmidt farm.
Holding Ilse-Renata’s small hand firmly in his, he dreamt of his future with her. In his other hand, he held secure the crest that safeguarded his family’s past and a future yet to come.
Otto and Hildegard waved farewell to Paul and Ilse-Renata. Their short visit had come to a melancholy end, and the quiet farmhouse would echo emptiness in their wake.
Earlier, Otto had helped Paul load the boot of his military vehicle with the last of the fresh produce, fresh meat, and sausage, the price to be paid for Paul’s few days of leave.
“Ilse-Renata is a lovely young woman, is she not, my dear?” Otto asked, still waving as the vehicle turned left onto the main road.
“Indeed, she is! Paul would be wise to keep his eye on her,” Hildegard agreed. “And, I’m certainly glad for her help, as I am sure you are of Paul’s.” She continued. “Come. We’re waving like fools, and they can’t even see us!” Hildegard turned toward the side of the farmhouse, heading for the kitchen.
“Thanks to their extra hands,” Otto acknowledged, “we’ve completed our work far sooner than I expected. I’ll use the rest of today to distribute parcels to the folks hereabouts and to say our good-byes. I think we can finish packing tomorrow and be off the following day to Bayreuth.”
“And not a moment too soon, from the sounds of it!” Hildegard said, adding, “I’d like to go with you today. I have some preserves that I’d like to deliver. Won’t Gerhard and Emma be surprised to see us in Bayreuth before the end of February!”
An hour later, the old farm truck was loaded with farm goods, and the two set off to say their farewells.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
FIVE DAYS LATER, Otto rolled the truck to a halt in the yard of the Neue-farm, where his parents had been residing since the previous fall. Wolfy leapt from the back of the truck and ran, barking with joy, to greet Herr and Frau Schmidt. Frost coated the frozen ground on which he landed and muted the volume of his bark.
“Crazy hound,” Herr Schmidt said, ruffling the dog’s fluffy coat. “Go find some creatures in the field. Off you go.” He swung his arms, shooing the dog out of the way.
“How was the drive?” Herr Schmidt asked. “Did you encounter any difficulties?”
“Not really,” Otto advised. “It took longer than we had hoped. We were constantly diverted to back roads and farm roads that were frozen and icy. We couldn’t travel much faster than a horse-drawn wagon. The ruts and bumps were challenging. Fortunately, we kept back this last truck: the cabin sheltered us from the wind and weather. And, of course, Gerhard ensured that we had the appropriate papers, so we were never stopped for long.”
“Looks like we could have snow in a few hours,” his father commented, interrupting Otto’s report while he flagged the attention of the farm’s manager.
“Yes, sir?” the elderly gentleman said.
“Will you see if you can round up a few helping hands so we can get this truck unloaded before the snow arrives?”
“I think there are some fellows in the barn. I’ll find them and return shortly,” he said, departing in the direction of the milking barn.
Within the hour, a cream-coloured Rohr, its dark blue convertible roof closed to the elements, rolled into the yard and stopped next to the truck.
“Your mother telephoned to say you’d arrived,” Gerhard said, climbing out of the car. He greeted first Otto, then Hildegard, with a welcoming embrace. “You’re early! I didn’t expect to see you for at least another week.”
“Paul stopped by for a few days. He and his friend offered to help, and that sped everything up nicely,” Otto told him.
When Gerhard failed to enquire about Paul’s friend, Hildegard made a face at Otto as if to express her surprise that Gerhard had overlooked the reference. Otto shrugged his shoulders in response.
“Paul was able to get time off?” Gerhard exclaimed.
“His commander let him take a few days, on the condition that he return with food. Fortunately, we were able to oblige him.”
“Good man,” Gerhard said, slapping his long-time friend on the back. “I can spare an hour. Let’s see if an extra pair of hands can help get this stuff unloaded before the snow starts.”
As if on cue, heavy, grey-white snow clouds began roiling over distant hills and two men arrived from the milking barn.
Able-bodied men were hard to find, most having been conscripted, but any man who had left the farm or the estate to serve their country was welcomed back and re-employed, if they were capable. One of the fellows was missing a hand, taken by an exploding grenade. The other had lost most of his sight during a fire-flash, and gnarled flesh scarred the left side of his face.
Together, they worked with Gerhard and Otto, and the truck was soon emptied.
An hour later, the workers were beckoned into the kitchen for a hot meal prepared by Frau Schmidt. Gerhard declined, insisting that he had to return to the office.
Otto followed him to the car. “You look worried. What’s going on?”
Gerhard stood next to the driver’s door, looking toward the churning snow clouds. He inhaled deeply, as if in resignation, and released a plume of frozen breath.
Quietly, so as not to be overheard, he spoke. “Otto, I am so glad that you are not involved in this military business. My work these days is taxed with worry. The Führer has started conscripting the “Hitler Youth.” The poor pups don’t even receive adequate training. Sure, they’re schooled in a military environment, but they are not taught military disciplines. Most have become young killing machines, without direction or purpose. They have no sense of discretion!
“In addition to the work that I’ve been doing, I am now tasked with trying to salvage what’s left of the ones who make it home. They are so messed up: mind, body, and soul.”
Otto braced his gloved hand on the hood of the car and shifted his weight to his right leg for stability. “Perhaps when we get set up here, I might be of assistance?”
“Perhaps. I’ll keep that in mind, but … I’d rather you stayed here, focussed on the running of the farm, and ensuring that everyone is safe,” Gerhard said. “I can rely on you, and, if I need someone to talk to, you’ll always be here.”
“I’m here for you, brother,” Otto said, placing his hand companionably on Gerhard’s shoulder as snowflakes began to fall.
Gerhard hesitated, as if reluctant to leave his friend. “I’m worried about the resisters and what they may have disclosed under interrogation—Ulrich von Hassell, Adam von Trott zu Solz, and the others in the Kreisau Circle,” he whispered, waving his arms across his chest; a subconscious gesture used to increase blood flow to his freezing fingers.
Stepping closer to Otto, he said, “M
y name could be on any one of their secret lists, and that information could be revealed during an interrogation! I’m so worried about it that I’ve developed an ulcer, for God’s sake!” In reflex, a hand rested against his belly and he winced.
Otto noted the deep lines carved in his friend’s face, etched there by the worry of the past years. “As could be mine,” he said. “I may not be an officer in the Wehrmacht, but I’m always watchful. I’ve heard that the Gestapo are executing anyone expressing defeatist ideas, not that I share my thoughts aloud with anyone other than you and Hilde. Regardless, if the Gestapo find you, I have no doubt they’ll find me, too. Their interrogation techniques have a way of helping folks part with information that they didn’t even know they had!”
“Well,” Gerhard mused, “we weren’t involved in the attempt to assassinate Hitler last July, and, so far, I haven’t had to resist any of the Führer’s orders. Let’s continue to hope, shall we?”
He gave Otto a feeble smile, then regained his earnest tone. “I’ve heard a rumour that, after the assassination attempt, the Führer had some of the chief resisters rounded up, then ordered them to commit suicide. That man has no compassion for the faith of a good Catholic.”
He shook his head in disgust. “Hassell left the safety of his home in Bavaria for his office in Berlin and waited there until the Gestapo arrested him. Freisler presided over his trial. Of course, he was found guilty, sentenced to death, and executed the next day. Some may have escaped the country—they’re missing, at least—likely thinking that they’d found honour in their resistance and can do nothing more.”
Gerhard kicked at the fluffy snow gathering around his boot, then continued. “When Himmler first ordered the Gestapo to pick up resisters, the focus was on members of the Kreisau Circle. But now, diaries are being found that list the names of others, and the round-up has been extended to include any suspected sympathizers and anyone who may have acted against the Gestapo in the past. It’s all so sickening … and frightening. I want to wish for Hitler’s death, but, as a good Catholic, I can’t endorse his assassination. Besides, I had to take that damned Hitler Oath when I was recalled.”
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