Reading Sample

Synopsis

Chapter 1

Late summer was drawing to a close. The last days of September were so sunny and warm it felt as though it might last forever, sparing them the dark, wet days of autumn. Pastor Adolf Herrmann and his wife Gertrud took their usual Monday evening stroll. At a leisurely pace, they reached the edge of Illmandingen village, leaving the paved main street behind.

The grass-covered paths led across the plateau of the Swabian Jura, whose hilltops gradually turned pink in the setting sun. The plain dissolved into a hazy blue, and not a breath of wind stirred.

Pastor Herrmann’s gaze wandered into the distance. Normally, the beauty of the late summer landscape brought him deep satisfaction, placing him in a near-meditative, serene state of mind. Lately, however, he had been unable to enjoy the idyll. A persistent restlessness gnawed at him. Sometimes he grew so agitated that his face turned red, and he inhaled and exhaled loudly, almost snorting.

The recent events that had shaken the nation left him no peace. Hitler’s rise to power, just seven months ago, had been a rapid and fundamental change to his familiar world.

Gertrud recognized the tense expression around his mouth. She glanced at his trembling chin and stepped half a pace away from his side.

For weeks, he had been wrestling with himself. How could he have been blinded by Hitler’s promises? Why had he joined the Hitler-loyal German Christians and overlooked their lies? But he was not alone in this. Even Württemberg’s church president, the evangelical regional bishop Theophil Wurm, had initially welcomed Hitler’s chancellorship. They had all hoped, at first, that Hitler would unify the country and lead it to prosperity. Yet once he was firmly seated as Reich Chancellor, his followers infiltrated every societal institution, even the churches.

„How could I have been so blind?“ he berated himself.

Gertrud glanced around nervously.

His voice rose. „Did the man not claim in his inaugural address that he saw in Christianity the unshakable foundation of our people’s moral and ethical life…?“ He felt a surge of heat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

 His wife studied him from the side. Her expression showed concern, but also a hint of disapproval. Pastor Herrmann knew all too well that Gertrud despised spontaneous outbursts of emotion. She could not bear it when someone lost control and openly displayed their feelings. He had to calm down before the rush of blood to his head made him babble, spraying saliva as he spoke in his fervor. He made an effort to cool down, repeating to himself that he had already taken a 180-degree turn. He had realigned himself and had now joined the ranks of those outraged at Hitler, the opposition.

Recently, he had attended the pastors’ assembly convened by Bishop Wurm, which had unequivocally condemned the brutal power grab of the German Christians. At the meeting, over a thousand Württemberg pastors had protested against this faction’s attempts to amend the constitution and seize control of all Protestant regional churches. Their goal was to bring the churches into line and subordinate them to a unified Reich’s Church controlled by the Nazi Party. Not to mention their plans to abolish all democratic rights within the church.

Pastor Herrmann fought to keep himself from hyperventilating. All at once, he felt short of breath.

“You’re getting all worked up again; your face is beet red!” his wife exclaimed, turning pale herself.

Pastor Herrmann could walk no further; he had to sit down. There was no bench along the path, so he just sat in the grass. Gertrud gathered up her long cotton skirt with care and settled beside him, ensuring the fabric didn’t touch the dirt. It was clear his agitation unsettled her; she wore an expression as if she were enduring a toothache. “That Hitler and his cronies—none of this is worth it…” she attempted weakly. She frowned, as she always did when saying something that didn’t align with her convictions. For, in truth, it was worth getting upset about how this Austrian corporal sought to take over the country in such a brutal manner.

Pastor Herrmann continued to suffer, pulling up a clump of grass with such vigor that the roots came out with it. Hitler had lied from the very beginning, and it did not help Pastor Herrmann to remind himself repeatedly that most of his colleagues and even Bishop Wurm had been deceived by Hitler’s manipulations.

 That very evening, he would draft a letter formally resigning from the German Christians. He had waited far too long already. He should have taken action as soon as these men sought to reshape the Bible, adapting it to their National Socialist ideology. They aimed to remove all “Jewish elements” from the Bible, eliminating the Old Testament in its entirety. “Barbarians,” he muttered under his breath, so softly that Gertrud could not hear. Why had he waited? Perhaps because he had hoped it wouldn’t become so bad, that the German Christians might backtrack. But they didn’t.

This decision brought him a small measure of relief, cooling his agitation a fraction.

Pastor Herrmann and his wife fell silent now. He grim, she… he wasn’t sure. Worried, annoyed? They gazed out over the stark landscape. Beyond the darkening meadows, the hilltops now stood out in a deeper red, and the colors gradually shifted to a murky violet, soon fading into shades of brown and gray-black.

All of a sudden, Gertrud took his hand, stroking it rhythmically and insistently, as if soothing a wild animal. Pastor Herrmann let out a deep sigh. It was rare for him to experience such a tender touch from his wife. Most of the time, Gertrud avoided physical contact. This painful realization led him to his next troubling thought.

Their only child, Rose, weighed heavily on his mind. For the first time, Rose was living alone in the city. They had arranged for her to stay with foster parents in Tübingen so she could attend grammar school there. The Swabian Jura offered no school capable of properly nurturing a student as gifted as Rose. And now she was sitting alone in Tübingen, just twelve years old.

“You’re not thinking about Hitler anymore; you’re thinking about Rose, aren’t you?” Gertrud had come to know him so well that she could read specific thoughts on his face. Recently, she had remarked, “When you think about Rose, one corner of your mouth pulls up into a sad smile.”

Pastor Herrmann only nodded, swallowing hard.

So far, Rose had sent only one letter from Tübingen, and it was short and unremarkable. Gertrud had tried to reassure him she was probably so busy that this war normal.  But his thoughts kept spinning: She’s alone for the first time. She’s in the city. She’s attending a new school. Everything is unfamiliar, and there’s no one to help her.

Gertrud squeezed his hand. “You know Rose is well cared for. The Sihlers are decent people, a police officer and his wife. She couldn’t be in a safer place.”

“But they’re complete strangers to Rose,” he protested, his tone already growing a touch too forceful.

Gertrud shook her head. “It’s strange how much you worry about Rose now. You never paid her much attention before. You were always buried in your study.” She paused. “You rarely spent much time with her or really talked to her.”

Pastor Herrmann grimaced. That was true. He had never had long conversations with his daughter. But he had always provided for her. When the village had no vegetables available, he had cycled twenty kilometers every day, even in the freezing winter, to buy produce for his little Rose. He had hoped it would benefit her health and growth. Yes, they had spoken little. She was just a child, after all. In his own upbringing, his father had never talked to the children. The father had his work to do as the provider, and only the mother and the maid had tended to him and his four brothers. That was just how it had been. Generations lived the same way, and no one questioned it. Somehow, this division of roles had worked.

But now doubts and pangs of conscience tormented him. Had he paid too little attention to his daughter? In his mind’s eye, he saw Rose running down the village street with her playmates, roaring with laughter, and his eyes burned as tears welled up. Only now, with her gone—when for the first time in their entire lives, he didn’t see her every day, and only his wife and the maid sat with him at the dining table—did he realize how much he loved his daughter. He had never imagined such pain from their separation.

He turned to his wife, who only gazed out at the landscape, seemingly absorbed in watching a distant ox-cart transporting timber.

Nothing about Gertrud betrayed concern. She was as she always had been. She hadn’t expressed the slightest worry about Rose. Somehow, that didn’t seem normal to him. Yet he wasn’t really surprised.

Chapter 2

To shut out the unfamiliar surroundings at the Sihlers‘ house before falling asleep, Rose imagined her old playmates. She thought of wild Heike with her brown braids, who loved to beat up boys her age. Sometimes, Heike even hurled cow dung at them. Rose smirked, but then tears began to flow again as images of the meadows, trees, hills, and the vast horizon of the Swabian Jura passed before her inner eye. She felt even more desolate when she looked up at the window in her little room. The red-checked curtain did little to dim the light. A streetlamp cast a milky glow through the fabric onto her bed. Outside, a main road carried a steady stream of cars, their headlights painting restless patterns across the ceiling.

She had almost gotten used to the noise of the traffic. But the road wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sounds from the kitchen, which shared a thin wall with her room. When she pressed her ear against it, she could hear every word spoken there. Tonight, Mr. Sihler had once again invited his buddies over. Mrs. Sihler had to serve them beer and sandwiches. She never joined the conversations; at least Rose had never heard her speak a word.

The later the evening grew, the more boisterous the men’s talk became. Unable to sleep, Rose listened at the wall.

The men laughed coarsely.

“Did you see Singer’s face when the big display window shattered?”

“Shattered into a thousand pieces. Shards flew everywhere.”

“The iron bars did their job. Good old cast iron.”

“And his old lady! Ha!”

“When we barged through the kicked-in door. They couldn’t believe it.”

“Eddi cleaned out everything. Watches, bracelets.”

“And I grabbed the rings.”

“Necklaces, silver…”

“Moments like that only come once in a lifetime—smashing shop windows and grabbing the jewelry without punishment.”

“You’re not whining about the membership fees anymore, eh, Roland? You’ve gotten your money’s worth a hundred times over. You were ready to quit the Brownshirts just because of the lousy dues.”

Every now and then, Ruedi Sihler, told the others to keep it down. For a moment, the voices became more subdued through the wall. But soon, they were laughing again. What was so funny this time?

“Who’d have thought of slapping Singer in the face after all that?”

“Man, did you see his expression? He was completely stunned. Never saw it coming, that fancy gentleman. Just stood there staring, didn’t even fight back.”

“You were worse, Eddi…”

Now they howled with laughter.

“When you threatened to kill him in front of his wife.”

The men roared and shouted.

What came next?

“Singer’s wife’s face—better than any movie. She just stood there, frozen, eyes wide open. Didn’t make a sound.”

“Rightly so. That woman knows how a lady should behave. A woman should obey and keep her mouth shut.”

“And if she doesn’t, she deserves a good thrashing.”

Now they roared out a cheer for the Führer. Three cheers. Glass beer mugs clinked together.

Rose turned away from the wall and stretched out on the bed. She tried to ignore the noises coming from the room next door. The mattress was soft, and the pillows and duvet were even filled with down. They hadn’t skimped on her bed. In fact, the Sihlers had been very kind to her. Their kindness had been a comfort from the beginning.

For the first time in her life, she was completely alone. When she first moved in, she had been terrified of the Sihlers, imagining them as monstrous strangers. But Mrs. Sihler had spoiled her from the start, preparing her hot cocoa for breakfast every morning. Rose was allowed to dunk fresh white bread into the chocolatey warmth.

Mrs. Sihler took her seriously, even confided in her with secrets. Mr. Sihler, too, treated Rose with respect—almost like a little lady. He had even shared personal things with her, such as how his wife suffered from hormonal imbalances and sometimes imagined things that had no basis in reality, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Because Mr. Sihler treated her like a young lady, Rose didn’t take the crude talk of his companions too seriously. She had never actually seen the men before; to her, they seemed like voices on the radio.

The Sihlers were always friendly to her, but they were far less kind to each other. Their arguments had grown so bitter that they only communicated through written notes now. Rose herself had to deliver these little messages between them.

Rose sighed, watching the dust particles dance in the headlights‘ glow. It was a relief that Mrs. Sihler, in particular, seemed to take such a liking to her. Mrs. Sihler had confided that she couldn’t have children. Perhaps that was why she was so fond of Rose. Yesterday, she had shared a big secret: “I can’t stand that Nazi gang,” she blurted at the breakfast table after Mr. Sihler had left for work. “The Nazis are primitive and brutal.” Her face had twisted with such contempt that her appearance grew frightening. “Ever since Ruedi joined their thug squads, he’s lost all my respect.” She had cleared her throat, pausing for a long moment. Rose wondered what she was about to say and whether she felt embarrassed. Finally, Mrs. Sihler had confessed, “He’s been stepping out on me for years.”

What did „stepping out on somebody“ mean? Rose had never heard the expression before, but it seemed serious—worse than being a Nazi, she sensed. “That’s why he gets his daily dose of soda in his coffee,” Mrs. Sihler had added matter-of-factly. Rose didn’t know what soda was either, but she had a hunch it was some kind of punishment with unpleasant effects.

“If you witness wrongdoing,” Mrs. Sihler had said, her tone solemn as if swearing an oath, “you have not only the right but the duty to do something about it.” Then she laughed with satisfaction. “Ha, he got his dose again this morning. I’ve also told him exactly what I think of Hitler. He didn’t like that one bit. Ruedi has a terrible temper. I just hope he doesn’t lose control one day. But he’ll get what he deserves, sooner or later,” she had declared with deep enthusiasm before taking a sip of her freshly brewed coffee.

Rose turned to the other side of the bed, away from the wall, and pondered whether Mrs. Sihler was wise to oppose her husband. Then her thoughts grew broader: Was it wise to stand up to the Nazis if they were violent? She remembered a Bible verse: Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. And she praised herself for how smoothly she had navigated her own challenges so far. She had graduated from elementary school in the Jura with distinction. Learning had always come easily to her; she had always enjoyed it, often studying more than her teachers required. At home, there had been no shortage of books. She had spent hours in her father’s library, reading in an armchair while he sat at his desk, puffing on a cigar behind a newspaper or immersed in his own books. Perhaps that was why she was managing well enough at her new school.

The first three weeks had been difficult. Lessons in the city were much more demanding. But as of yesterday, she felt confident that she would soon reclaim the top spot in her class.

What worried her more were the many new faces. Twenty girls she had never seen before. Her mother had assured her she would soon get used to all the new things. But almost four weeks had passed, and her classmates still felt like strangers. They even looked different—more fashionable, more feminine. Some already showed the faint beginnings of a bust.

Rose bit her lip. At first, the other girls hadn’t taken her seriously, just ignored her. Probably because she was so small and still so childlike. Then they noticed she could answer every question in class, always quick with a reply. From then on, they paid attention to her—but not with any warmth. Only in gym class, where she was the fastest sprinter, did they show her a hint of affection by nicknaming her „Herrmänne“ with a hint of admiration.

Rose glanced at her worn wristwatch and loosed a soft sigh. Tomorrow would be another exhausting school day; she needed to sleep. It was already close to midnight. Tears welled up again. She felt utterly alone.

Before homesickness could soak her pillow, she pictured the hot cocoa Mrs. Sihler would prepare for her in the morning. She could almost taste the rich chocolate on her tongue, smell its warm sweetness in her nose. At last, with a gentle warmth spreading through her, she drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 3

 Pastor Herrmann typed out his resignation letter to the German Christians on his Adler typewriter. He slammed at the keys, muttering angrily under his breath. With a sharp motion, he tore the sheet from the machine, signing it with such aggression that the nib of his fountain pen splayed, splattering ink across the paper. Suddenly, he froze. The house was silent. He listened for any sound, any movement. Nothing. Not the slightest noise.

The silence was unnatural. It amplified the vastness of the parsonage. When a house this large—with its twelve rooms—was utterly quiet, it took on a foreboding quality.

Crushing the soiled letter in his hand, Pastor Herrmann loaded a fresh sheet into the typewriter and began hammering at the keys again. The clattering noise was almost a comfort. But when he signed the letter a second time and stamped it with the office seal in a loud, decisive motion, the oppressive silence returned, now even sharper. In his mind, he could hear young Rose’s footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

It wasn’t just that he hadn’t often spoken to Rose; he had hardly thought about her beyond her health. Her well-being had always been important to him. But no—that wasn’t entirely true. He was being too harsh on himself. Even back then, he had admired Rose’s openness. She had formed connections with almost everyone in the village—farmers, their children, schoolteachers, and countless others. She had gathered the village children around her, unafraid. And at school, she had been the best in her class every year.

The memory tightened his throat. Rose had met the highest expectations entirely on her own. He had never had any trouble with her. One day, the school principal had even assembled the entire class in the auditorium to praise and honor her. At just ten years old, the principal had confided, Rose thought as deeply as a seventeen-year-old.

Pastor Herrmann suspected that he loved his daughter more than his wife did. Gertrud had suffered a difficult birth. For reasons unknown, Rose hadn’t wanted to enter the world, leading to a forceps delivery. Gertrud had almost died giving birth. Afterward, she had never formed a loving bond with Rose. His wife had lain in her room for weeks, the curtains drawn, only appearing for meals. Lina, the maid, had cared for the infant. They had even had to hire a wet nurse because Gertrud had been unable to breastfeed.

At the time, he had suspected that his wife wanted to keep Rose away from her. Whenever the baby was brought to her room, Gertrud would stare past the small bundle, never looking straight at the rosy little face. And as soon as the child cried, she would press her hand to her forehead, complaining of severe headaches. She would demand that the curtains be drawn, and the room darkened before closing her eyes. A quiet Lina would carry Rose back to her own room, murmuring apologetically, “The difficult birth. The difficult birth.”

Even later, when Rose had begun a cheerful chatter, Pastor Herrmann had noticed no true warmth between them. His wife’s behavior remained distant, though she fulfilled all her duties. She never neglected Rose—washing, combing, moisturizing, dressing, feeding her, letting her crawl in the garden’s playpen, or pushing her in the old pram through the village.

There was nothing to criticize about his wife. She had always been there for their child. She carried out her duties impeccably. And yet, something was missing. The word “warmth” flitted through Pastor Herrmann’s mind. But had he himself not lacked warmth as well? Because he had paid too little attention to Rose? On the other hand, he now remembered so many details from Rose’s childhood. Those episodes were so vivid that they must have mattered deeply to him. Rose must have always been important to him.

Pastor Herrmann ran a hand over his bald forehead. Rose had sometimes been defiant, refusing to do what she was told. Perhaps that was her way of rebelling against the lack of love? Once, he had caught Gertrud shouting at Rose, threatening that she would go to the fiery pit if she didn’t wear the knee socks her mother had laid out for her first day of school. Another time, Gertrud had scolded Rose with far too much harshness after catching her being adorned with wooden beads by the village children. Little Rose had stood half-naked on a stool, draped with necklaces and ribbons made of wooden beads the children had likely borrowed from their mothers. She had perched there like an African princess, basking in their admiration.

Gertrud had cut off the scene, chasing the children away with a broom. No, he didn’t want to dwell on how downright brutal his wife had been toward the children that day. It hurt too much. And it had been so unlike Gertrud, who was normally so composed.

He clenched his chest so tightly he gave himself hiccups, breaking the eerie silence in the house. Moments later, he heard footsteps outside the door. The lightness of the tread revealed it was his wife. She knocked once before entering.

“There’s semolina dumplings in broth. Are you coming to the kitchen?”

Pastor Herrmann followed Gertrud down the cool hallway to the back rooms.

The soup tureen sat steaming on the long wooden table. Two place settings faced each other. Lina, the maid, who usually ate with them, was out for the evening.

He was eager to speak, but decided not to bring up Rose again. It wasn’t the right subject for his wife. Instead, he ate his soup in silence. But since it was impolite not to speak during a meal, he finally said, “I’ll drop my resignation letter to the German Christians in the mailbox tonight.”

Gertrud ate a few spoonfuls, then looked at him with caution. “And what about your SA membership?”

Pastor Herrmann choked, coughing and spluttering, though he managed to avoid spewing bits of dumpling onto his plate. “Good thing you reminded me,” he said, taking a large sip of water before continuing. “I only attended one meeting.” He gazed out the kitchen window into the black night as if seeking advice from the darkness. “That was enough for me.” This time, he didn’t get worked up. Instead, he slumped, feeling utterly drained.

The SA, who were recognizable by their brown shirts, had devolved into little more than a gang of thugs controlled by the Nazi Party. He paused, wondering: Hadn’t it always been that way? Years ago, he had joined as a student recruit… Why had he even entered such a violent organization? He sipped his soup with care and glanced at Gertrud. Her expression was a mix of incomprehension and pity. Yes, why had he joined?

The SA had been innocuously founded in 1920 as a “Gymnastics and Sports Division.” Most members had been very young when they joined, often still without jobs—workers, apprentices, sometimes schoolboys or, like him, university students. Many former front-line soldiers from the First World War had joined the SA because they saw no prospects for their future. A number of his classmates from the theological seminary in Tübingen had signed up as well. The SA had formed to oppose the left-wing parties, driven by fears of a communist revolution. He, too, had been critical of the left. They had antagonized the church with their calls for mass resignations. But the first time he had been assigned to act as a bouncer at one of Hitler’s party events—volunteering, like the fool he was—he had realized right away he had joined the wrong group.

There had been a wild brawl outside the hall. Members of the Communist Party (KPD) had tried to disrupt the event. He had taken a massive punch to the face, that knocked him to the ground. At least twenty communists armed with clubs stormed the hall, trampling over him as they charged in. With great effort, he had managed to crawl up by the door and slip into the aisle. From there, he had watched as SA members beat the intruders with open glee, even kicking those already down. They roared with laughter as if it were the greatest fun. It went far beyond self-defense. They shouted murderous slogans in a frenzy: Death to the Red Front! Hang the leftist scum! It was violence glorified for its own sake. After that, he had never volunteered for any duty again and had avoided all events. He had simply let his membership lapse. There were no obligations aside from paying dues. “You’re right, Gertrud. I should have quit the SA a long time ago.”

Gertrud refilled his glass of water. Pastor Herrmann ate a second bowl of soup mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere.

From the beginning, the SA had also been antisemitic. Since antisemitic attitudes were widespread among many Protestant and Catholic Christians, this had scarcely registered as significant. It was, so to speak, an everyday occurrence. He had largely overlooked it, as such sentiments rarely had real-world consequences in daily life. But his view of the SA should have changed, at the latest, in April 1933, when he witnessed how they called for boycotts of Jewish businesses and assaulted Jewish citizens.

In his mind, he reviewed the newspaper articles from the spring that had reported—and even condoned—the SA’s violent excesses against Jews. That should have been the moment he canceled his membership.

He suddenly choked on a dumpling, coughing and spluttering, his eyes watering. Gertrud sprang up in irritation and patted his back with the flat of her hand.

“Calm down, Adolf. Just breathe,” she murmured, emphasizing each word as she spoke.

His thoughts continued to churn. The SA had fast devolved into an organization whose sole purpose was to pursue Hitler’s opponents and neutralize them in the most barbaric ways. As long as the target had been the Communist Party, many Protestant and Catholic Christians—including himself—had approved. But now the circle of enemies was expanding: Social Democrats, trade unionists, liberals, conservatives, Jews. And Pastor Herrmann wondered when the churches would be targeted—when pastors and priests would be beaten.

Gertrud cleared the table, stacking the empty plates in the sink. She left the pot of soup warm for Lina, who would return around nine. Lina was as punctual as clockwork, always back at the parsonage by nine in the evening after her weekly outing to Reutlingen.

The antisemitism, if he were honest, had never made sense to him. All German theologians studied Hebrew. Christ was a Jew. Even though Jews had betrayed Him to the Roman authorities, He remained a Jew. It was absurd.

Pastor Herrmann watched as his wife moved about the kitchen, tidying and preparing the table for breakfast. His thoughts wandered. Gertrud had been a beautiful young woman when he asked for her hand. But her girlish charm had faded fast. She was still slender, but now verging on gaunt. Her face had grown narrow, and beneath her pale skin, he could already discern a web of fine lines.

He shook off the distraction and returned to the thoughts that tormented him. Christianity and the churches that upheld it worshipped Jesus Christ, a Jew. This fact was undeniable, and Pastor Herrmann already knew the answer that gnawed at him: it was only a matter of time before Hitler would also target Christianity and its churches, seeking to abolish them in their entirety.

Chapter 4

The morning was fresh, almost cold. Pastor Herrmann watched his wife through the window of his study. She slipped into the chicken coop and emerged soon afterward with a basket of eggs, setting it on the garden table. She removed the eggs from the basket with care, turning them over in her large hands. Every now and then, she blew away a stray feather.

Pastor Herrmann pursed his lips. When he had first met Gertrud, her hands hadn’t been so large. They were narrow, with slender, long fingers. The work in the garden had changed them. They had little money; the rural parish salary was modest. So, Gertrud, together with Lina, managed the garden herself—growing fruit, all kinds of berries, keeping chickens, and raising chicks. She even managed to twist the necks of the hens when needed. He looked away for a moment, then back at Gertrud.

His wife had grown up in Ulm, pampered by her parents along with her sisters. Sometimes, as she reminisced, her face would light up, looking ten years younger as she recounted the lively gatherings her parents had hosted—dance evenings, nights filled with singing and music. Her face would glow in a similar way when she recalled the dresses and especially the hats she and her sisters would choose as young girls to show off in town. Her parents had prepared them for the grand celebration of life, for the approval of the men who would eventually arrange their futures. At first, it seemed to work. Gertrud and her sisters met charming young men from wealthy families. Gertrud was soon engaged to Hans Arnold, a daring air force officer. But Arnold crashed during a training flight before the First World War even began. Her sisters‘ fiancés later fell in the war. He, Adolf Herrmann, had been Gertrud’s second choice. The girls had to marry; they were not wealthy and needed to be provided for.

Meeting Gertrud for the first time had enchanted him. Gertrud’s mother had invited prospective suitors to a coffee gathering for her daughters. As a newly appointed pastor with a steady income and a church-provided house, he had somehow ended up on the guest list. Perhaps they had invited him out of desperation, after the far more eligible fiancés of Gertrud and her sisters had died and only a few marriageable men remained. Gertrud had been irresistible. When she gave him her consent, he could hardly believe it. That such an elegant, delicate girl had chosen him—a country pastor who wasn’t even good-looking, barely taller than she was, stocky, with a face too strong-featured, a chin too pronounced, though his face bore a spiritual quality. She had been much too beautiful for him.

During their first week together on the Swabian Jura—there had been no money for a honeymoon—Gertrud had something akin to a nervous breakdown. She accused him of behaving like an animal and threw his dirty shoes, which he had left in the kitchen to be cleaned, out the window. What alarmed him even more was that after that first week, she left him and returned to her parents. Oh, how he had reproached himself and worried! Would she ever come back?

It had been his fault. He had been unable to restrain himself. When she stood before him, naked—or rather, half-naked, her upper body bare—he couldn’t help himself. Never before had he seen such a perfectly formed female body, and now it was his to approach. All control had deserted him. It had happened far too fast. He had acted blindly, unrestrained, driven by instinct. That overwhelming desire, that soaring excitement… If she hadn’t returned, he would have understood. He truly had behaved like an animal. There was no sugarcoating it.

After a month without word from Gertrud, he had resigned himself to the idea of living without her. He wanted no other woman, ever. Then, one day, Gertrud appeared at his door with her mother.

He had been unspeakably relieved and had agreed to everything her mother instructed him to do. Yes, yes, yes! He had been so overjoyed that Gertrud was back. The next day, he set out to find a maid and succeeded with ease.

Gertrud’s mother stayed until the maid was trained. Then came a tearful farewell. For Gertrud, it must have marked the end of her childhood, her sheltered youth, a better life.

From that point on, his wife had stayed with him—at least for the most part. He no longer dared to approach her physically, and she gave no indication that she wanted him to. Not a hint. Then her menstruation stopped, which likely meant she was pregnant. Any intimacy was now out of the question, as Gertrud’s mother made clear in a telegram.

Outside, Gertrud scattered grain for the chickens on the thinning autumn grass and made odd noises to coax the hens out of the coop.

Once they had navigated the sharpest challenges of their life together, Gertrud had at least come to appreciate him—his knowledge, his education, his political instincts. Politically, they were of one mind, and she stood loyally by his side—or so it seemed.

Lina joined her now to clean out the coop while Gertrud shooed the chickens onto the lawn, where more green blades of grass remained.

Whenever he thought about Gertrud, a sense of melancholy overwhelmed him. Perhaps it was guilt—he was the wrong man for her. He had wanted her, but she had not wanted him, and she never would, not in the way he wanted her. Trying to console himself, he reminded himself that Rose would be home on leave soon. The thought brought him a brief moment of joy before he felt sorrow again, knowing Gertrud couldn’t share his excitement about their daughter.

Chapter 5

Rose sat alone on the train to Reutlingen. At last, it was autumn break. She had been so excited she hadn’t slept half the night. She had never been away from home before and now she was overjoyed at the thought of seeing her village again—the Swabian Jura, her friends, and especially her father.

Mrs. Sihler had accompanied her to the train station and waited on the platform until the train departed. She had even waved her light blue handkerchief. “There goes our sunshine,” she had half-complained as she helped Rose heave the suitcase onto the train. A tear had rolled down Mrs. Sihler’s pink rouged cheek. Rose, beaming, had waved back from the train window until Mrs. Sihler disappeared into a black dot in the distance.

Now, seated between five other passengers on the hard wooden bench of her compartment, she watched the chickens a farmer in a coarse dark blue cotton skirt had stowed under her seat. The chickens scratched and emitted soft peeping sounds. When their feathers brushed against the wire mesh covering the basket, it rustled like someone fanning themselves with a newspaper.

Rose had already forgotten about Mrs. Sihler. She smiled to herself, planning what she would do first when she got home.

In the compartment sat a man in a brown shirt—a „Brownshirt,“ as they called the men in SA uniforms. The man had even offered to take her to the bus stop in Reutlingen after the conductor asked if she was traveling alone and knew where to change trains. Lately, the Brownshirts had been everywhere. Rose had seen large groups of them at the Tübingen station and in the city center. Once, Mrs. Sihler had remarked that they spread like an infectious disease. But the young man in her compartment, stocky with healthy, ruddy cheeks, was courteous and seemed far from resembling a sickness. He had led her straight to the bus stop, carried her suitcase, and waited until the bus arrived and she got on. He even asked the driver if the bus was heading to Illmandingen. But none of that mattered to Rose now. She could think only of home. Her home had become a place of longing, and now her longing would be fulfilled. It was like Christmas, when she eagerly awaited her gift, no matter how modest it might be.

Her surprise was great when her father met her at the bus stop. How long had he been waiting there? At first, she was startled and asked if something had happened. He shook his head, gave a sheepish laugh, and took her suitcase. Rose almost threw her arms around him, but the suitcase was in the way—and besides, they never hugged.

At home, Lina rushed to greet her. In the kitchen, she had set the table as if it were Sunday, even though it was a Friday. She had laid out the white linen tablecloth embroidered with yellow roses at the corners and the gold-rimmed dishes. Lina busied herself at the stove, warming the beef broth with vegetables and noodles. Only her mother was missing.

“Your mama had to lie down. She has a headache,” her father explained.

Rose recounted stories about school, her teachers, her classmates, the peculiar Sihlers, and then what Mr. Sihler and his cronies had done to the jeweler Singer. Lina’s eyes widened, and her father grumbled under his breath.

“What did the Singers ever do?” Lina lamented. “They only sold jewelry.”

“They’re Jews,” her father murmured. Then, even quieter—so quiet that Rose could barely understand—he added, “Maybe they just want their money.”

But Lina had heard. “Do you mean, Pastor, that they’re doing this to the Jews to get their money?”

Her father cast a cautious glance at her. Rose feared he would fall silent, but he explained, “During the witch trials in the Middle Ages, it was also mostly about money. They targeted wealthy widows, declared them witches, and seized all their property.”

Lina’s mouth fell open. “Then they’re real criminals! We’re being ruled by criminals. Pastor, can you believe that?” She gasped as if she were out of breath.

Rose felt uneasy. And she felt even stranger when, after the splendid meal, her father suggested they have coffee together in his study. Never before had her father invited her for coffee in his study—just the two of them.

Lina brought a pot of chicory coffee to the study along with her apple cake, which Rose loved so much. Her father poured the coffee into the delicate blue porcelain cups that belonged to her mother and began sipping it.

Rose was astonished when he started to explain what was happening in the country, sharing his political views as if she were an adult. She couldn’t recall her father ever speaking to her at length before, let alone about politics. Rose felt honored. She listened in amazement and grasped the essence of what he was saying. The Hitler state was a criminal regime, her father said—a vile criminal regime. People could no longer speak their minds with freedom, and sooner or later, it would affect them, too. Who did he mean by „them“? Her, Rose? Her father, her mother, Lina? Why? They weren’t Jews. And they had no money. Her father talked and talked. Slowly, it became too much for her, and she stopped paying attention. She wanted to go to the village, to her playmates. When she could no longer sit still, he finally allowed her to go, and she hurried off at once.

Rose was overjoyed to race through the fields with Heiner, Frieder, Margarete, Edith, Heike, and Mariele. She breathed in the scent of cow manure and dried grass as if for the first time. After inhaling nothing but exhaust fumes and street dust in the city, the smell now seemed almost heavenly.

They played until long after sunset, tumbling in the hay. With straw in her hair and her coarse blue woolen dress covered in chaff, she returned home utterly exhausted and blissfully happy.

Her mother was already waiting at the door. Her gaze stern, she scolded Rose for her disheveled hair and grassy dress. She grabbed a brush and, with sharp, clattering motions, removed the bits of grass and chaff, brushing her shoulder-length hair before braiding it into tight plaits that pulled painfully at her scalp. Rose hadn’t worn braids since she was eight; it was a child’s hairstyle. She no longer felt like a child—not since she had started school in Tübingen with all the young ladies there.

Did such a wonderful day—one where even her father, whom she adored, had shown her so much attention—really have to end like this?

…