The Willow Wren Philipp Schott (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

road to the northeast where we knew of a barley field out of view of any farmhouses. We were just a family out for a stroll with a remarkably quiet baby. Then when nobody else was around and a fat cloud scudded over the moon, we quickly ducked off the road into the field and began frantically snipping barley heads off their stalks and tossing them under the baby blanket in the carriage. At one point when I heard the rustle of what I thought might be a bird, I carefully raised my head up to see, to my absolute horror, another face looking at me from just a few rows over! Shit, the farmer! But he looked equally terrified and turned out to be just another townsperson stealing barley.

When we got home, we threshed the barley heads with a wooden spoon and then ground the grains in a coffee mill. This was mixed with whey, which had recently begun to appear on the ration list, thus making a rough porridge. This was our sustenance for the better part of a month. It probably saved us from actual death by starvation as bread no longer appeared on the ration list and Herr Rittmann had suddenly disappeared to the West, leaving behind a note that he had a sister in Kassel and that sometimes political principles had to take a back seat to survival.

In the midst of all this an entirely surreal letter arrived from Papa, the first in a little while.

Dear Luise,

It is so lovely to see spring again after that winter, is it not?

Camp life has developed a certain dull sameness day after day, but I am making the best of it. The work is hard, but as my strengths are more in working with my head than my hands, they are assigning me more paperwork-related tasks, which is more satisfying for me.

The highlight of my week is tea on Tuesdays with Major McWhirter. We have made it our routine. I practise my English, although it is already very good, and he practises his German, which is also not really in need of practice. We discuss literature and philosophy and music and sometimes we play cards. He has taught me whist, for which he brings in a colleague and an aide to make a foursome. Sometimes we even have a small glass of sherry afterwards. This is a special privilege.

The war becomes evermore distant. I have learned so much since the darkest days and am very grateful for this second chance.

Did my parcel arrive?

Your Wilhelm

And then not too long afterwards we received another, possibly even more surreal, letter.

Dear Luise,

Do you know The Clicking of Cuthbert? It is a collection of comical short stories by the marvellous English writer P.G. Wodehouse. I cannot claim that it is truly literature in the way we normally understand the term and, furthermore, the stories all concern the game of golf, which, as you know, I have not the slightest interest in, but the humour and warmth in these stories is simply wonderful. I haven’t smiled or chuckled like that since before the war. Major McWhirter lent the book to me, taking a guess that although it was not at all an obvious choice for me, I would still enjoy it very much, which I have. I know that you will not have access to The Clicking of Cuthbert in Colditz, and possibly not even in Leipzig, but I thought you would be happy to hear about this lovely little bit of sunshine in my day here.

Your Wilhelm

Chapter Forty-Two

Summer 1947

Russula cyanoxantha, Amanita phalloides, Agaricus dulcidulus, Tricholoma equestre, Cortinarius orellanusand my favourite, Boletus luridiformis. This was the poetry of the summer of 1947. The poetry of mushrooms. I could recite verse after verse of this beautiful epic poem. Barley thieving season ended just as mushroom picking season got underway. I shifted my reading from Mann, May and Langenscheidt to Edmund Michael’s classic Führer fuer Pilzfreunde (“Guide for Friends of Mushrooms”), which we also had in our impressive home library. The problem with relying on mushrooms for food was not that some are poisonous, but rather that mushroom picking was a beloved national pastime, so as soon as word got around that the season was underway it felt like every second person from Colditz was in my forest, crouching down with a basket over one arm.

No, the fact that some are poisonous was not a problem, it was a solution. I do not mean that Colditzers were being removed from mushroom hunting competition by being poisoned! They were far too careful and experienced for that. I mean that it was a solution because Colditzers were actually too careful and avoided mushrooms that looked similar to poisonous ones. For example I was always delighted when Boletus luridifromis began sprouting. In German we called it the Flockenstieliger Hexen-Röhrling (“spotted stem witch’s little pipe” — quite a mouthful in either language!). As the witch part of the common name implies, people were generally very suspicious of this mushroom because it looked so much like Suillelus satanas. That hardly requires translation. See the “satan” embedded in the species name? That is not an accident! It is not usually fatal when consumed, but the days of projectile vomiting and uncontrolled bloody diarrhea are reputed to be highly unpleasant. Boletus luridifromis on the other hand is safe and delicious. Not that taste was an important consideration — we were delighted with edible, regardless of taste. So, I went into the forest with E. Michael’s book tucked into my canvas shoulder bag, to be pulled out only when nobody was looking, lest our secret strategy be exposed. Clara wanted to come along, but I preferred to go by myself. It is easier to be secretive when one is alone, but it was also simply my preference. Sometimes it was fine to be around other people, especially people I knew well, but more often