continued going to church every day, in the firm belief that things would change soon. “God will not put up with this much longer,” she said with deep conviction, wagging her finger at the invisible enemy.
They spent a month searching for a home, without success. Some people looked down with embarrassment and shrugged regretfully; the faces of others showed satisfaction. They crossed their arms confidently over their chests as they spat out their “no.” One Monday in early December—it was becoming clear that they would not find a home in Kranenburg—there was a knock on the door, and Hanna’s father, Gustav Höver, stood on the threshold. The old man, who must have been approaching sixty, was tall and big-boned, and had the typical round Höver face, with its permanently flushed cheeks. He did not accept the seat her father offered but remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing his peaked cap in his plate-sized hands. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a key, and laid it on the kitchen table.
“It belongs to the cottage. If you want, Doctor, you can live there.” Then he left. Her father leapt to his feet and ran after him, but Höver turned and raised his hands defensively. “I’m ashamed,” he said, his head down. “I’m ashamed of what’s happening here.”
They moved a week later. Hollmann came to inspect the vacated house in person. He strode about among the boxes and furniture, and it was soon obvious that he was to be the new tenant.
They transported the first few loads on a handcart, but there was too much furniture and it was too big. They could neither carry it nor install it in the cottage. Hollmann smiled condescendingly and offered to take the furniture off their hands. “I’ll give you a good price,” he said. “You can’t take it away anyway.”
By about midday—they could barely move the heavy oak dresser in the living room, let alone transport it on a handcart—her father was ready to negotiate. Hollmann made an all-encompassing gesture and named a ridiculous price. Her mother wept with rage, and for a second time threatened God’s punishment. Then a horse and cart stopped in front of the house, and Gustav Höver came in. Hollmann roared at Höver to make himself scarce, but the old man stood right in front of him and said, “We’re loading the furniture onto the cart.” He said it quite neutrally, in a completely matter-of-fact way. They made three trips, storing the biggest and heaviest pieces in Höver’s barn.
Later, Therese Mende enjoyed remembering that scene. At the time, she had thought Höver had some kind of hold on Hollmann. It was not until years after the war that she understood that it was Höver’s determination, his way of standing there and holding one’s gaze: Hollmann was not used to it and did not know how to react.
Christmas in their new home was modest. Wrapped up in coats and scarves, they trudged through driving snow toward the blacked-out settlement of Kranenburg, close to two miles distant, for Midnight Mass. The church was packed, its windows covered with light-blocking material. After Mass, they stood in the square in front of the church as they did every year, shaking hands and wishing one another a happy Christmas. They were all there: Jacob and Alwine, Hanna, Leonard, and Wilhelm. But they did not stand together, as in previous years. She chatted briefly with Jacob and Leonard. Jacob’s training had been cut short, and after his home leave, he was to go to the front. She saw the tears in Leonard’s eyes. Alwine and Wilhelm stood next to each other. Hanna did not shake hands with any of the friends; she did not wish anyone a happy Christmas. When Jacob approached her, she left the square. They set off for home with the Hövers. Therese and Hanna had little Paul Höver between them; her parents walked a few paces behind them with old Höver. The wind had let up a little, and the snowflakes were falling gently and
They spent a month searching for a home, without success. Some people looked down with embarrassment and shrugged regretfully; the faces of others showed satisfaction. They crossed their arms confidently over their chests as they spat out their “no.” One Monday in early December—it was becoming clear that they would not find a home in Kranenburg—there was a knock on the door, and Hanna’s father, Gustav Höver, stood on the threshold. The old man, who must have been approaching sixty, was tall and big-boned, and had the typical round Höver face, with its permanently flushed cheeks. He did not accept the seat her father offered but remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing his peaked cap in his plate-sized hands. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a key, and laid it on the kitchen table.
“It belongs to the cottage. If you want, Doctor, you can live there.” Then he left. Her father leapt to his feet and ran after him, but Höver turned and raised his hands defensively. “I’m ashamed,” he said, his head down. “I’m ashamed of what’s happening here.”
They moved a week later. Hollmann came to inspect the vacated house in person. He strode about among the boxes and furniture, and it was soon obvious that he was to be the new tenant.
They transported the first few loads on a handcart, but there was too much furniture and it was too big. They could neither carry it nor install it in the cottage. Hollmann smiled condescendingly and offered to take the furniture off their hands. “I’ll give you a good price,” he said. “You can’t take it away anyway.”
By about midday—they could barely move the heavy oak dresser in the living room, let alone transport it on a handcart—her father was ready to negotiate. Hollmann made an all-encompassing gesture and named a ridiculous price. Her mother wept with rage, and for a second time threatened God’s punishment. Then a horse and cart stopped in front of the house, and Gustav Höver came in. Hollmann roared at Höver to make himself scarce, but the old man stood right in front of him and said, “We’re loading the furniture onto the cart.” He said it quite neutrally, in a completely matter-of-fact way. They made three trips, storing the biggest and heaviest pieces in Höver’s barn.
Later, Therese Mende enjoyed remembering that scene. At the time, she had thought Höver had some kind of hold on Hollmann. It was not until years after the war that she understood that it was Höver’s determination, his way of standing there and holding one’s gaze: Hollmann was not used to it and did not know how to react.
Christmas in their new home was modest. Wrapped up in coats and scarves, they trudged through driving snow toward the blacked-out settlement of Kranenburg, close to two miles distant, for Midnight Mass. The church was packed, its windows covered with light-blocking material. After Mass, they stood in the square in front of the church as they did every year, shaking hands and wishing one another a happy Christmas. They were all there: Jacob and Alwine, Hanna, Leonard, and Wilhelm. But they did not stand together, as in previous years. She chatted briefly with Jacob and Leonard. Jacob’s training had been cut short, and after his home leave, he was to go to the front. She saw the tears in Leonard’s eyes. Alwine and Wilhelm stood next to each other. Hanna did not shake hands with any of the friends; she did not wish anyone a happy Christmas. When Jacob approached her, she left the square. They set off for home with the Hövers. Therese and Hanna had little Paul Höver between them; her parents walked a few paces behind them with old Höver. The wind had let up a little, and the snowflakes were falling gently and
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