She was a quiet pupil, very quiet. Rather reluctant to speak up in class. Seemed a little dreamy. Not particularly good at spelling, stumbled over the words slightly when she read aloud. Arithmetic, yes, she was rather better at arithmetic. Otherwise nothing much about her struck me.

Her best friend, as far as I know, was Betty. Betty sat beside her. Now and then the girls whispered to each other in class, the way girls do with their friends. Girls always have a great deal to talk about, so their attention sometimes wanders.

But when I told them not to do it, they were quiet at once.

I noticed little Maria-Anna’s absence at once on the Saturday. That’s why I asked the rest of the class whether anyone knew where the child was. Unfortunately no one did. When she still didn’t show up for lessons on Monday, I made a note of it in the class register.

It was just the same as other school days. We said morning prayers at the beginning of lessons, as we do every day, and as always we remembered in our prayers those pupils who were absent because of illness.

That’s perfectly normal, we always do it; it’s nothing out of the ordinary. After all, at that point I still had no idea how important our prayers for little Maria-Anna were.

Sometimes pupils don’t turn up for school, but usually their parents write an excuse note afterward, or, if the child has a brother or sister at the school, then the note comes on the first day a boy or girl is absent, explaining why.

So I decided that if there was still no excuse note for the girl on Tuesday I’d cycle out to Tannöd and her grandparents’ farm. I was planning to go as soon as school was over that Tuesday, but then something happened to keep me here. Ever since I’ve been wondering whether maybe I ought to have cycled out earlier. But would that have helped little Maria-Anna? I don’t know.

Ludwig Eibl, postman, age 32

The Danner family’s farm is almost at the end of my route. I’ve been doing the same route these last six months. I pass the place almost every day. Well, certainly three times a week. Because old Danner takes the local newspaper, and that comes out three times a week. On Monday, on Wednesday and on Friday.

If there’s no one in I’m supposed just to leave their post by the window next to the front door, that’s what old Danner agreed with me.

So I was out there on the Monday, and when no one came to the door I left the mail where we’d agreed. I looked in through the window, too, but there wasn’t anyone around.

It happens now and then. I mean, it happens there’s no one at home. No, it’s not unusual. That time of year, folk are often out chopping wood. Everyone’s needed then, nobody stays on the farm.

The dog, yes, could be it barked. Yes, I’m sure it barked. But that’s all I can remember. I mean, dogs always bark when I arrive. I don’t listen anymore. All part of a postman’s job.

When I got back on my bike I did turn around once, checking that my bag was balanced on the carrier properly. When it’s getting empty it easily slips. So when I looked around, yes, I saw the house again.

Was there any smoke coming out of the chimney? What questions you do ask! I’ve no idea if there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Didn’t notice anything.

Took no notice of any of it anyway.

You want me to be honest, I didn’t much like them at that farm. Old Danner was a suspicious curmudgeon. A loner. His wife, Frau Danner, she was the same. Not a bundle of laughs, neither of them.

Well, what’d you expect? Bet you Frau Danner didn’t have an easy life with that husband of hers.

Now his daughter, Barbara Spangler, she’s a real looker, but made in the same mold as her parents.

Oh yes, I know the rumors about the Danners, how they keep everything in the family, even their children. Who doesn’t know what folk say? And being a postman you get told this and that, but if you was always to believe everything you hear . . .

Tell you what, I couldn’t care less who fathered Barbara’s two kids.

I’d have my hands full if I stopped to bother with other folks’ business. No good asking me, you’ll have to try someone else. I deliver the post and I keep well out of the rest of it.

The weather has been much better all day than for the last few weeks. No more snow, and the wind has died down. Now and then a few drops of rain fall. There’s a milky-white veil over the landscape. Mist, typical for this time of year. The first swathes of it are drifting over from the outskirts of the woods toward the meadow and the house. It’s late afternoon, and the day will soon be coming to an end. Dusk is slowly gathering.

He walks toward the house. The post is stuck between the metal bars over the window beside the front door. If there’s no one at home, the postman always leaves the post here. It meant they didn’t need a mailbox. And it’s only occasionally that there’s no one at all at home on the farm. Usually someone is there to take the post in, and, if not, then there’s the window next to the door.

A newspaper is stuck between the two bars and the window pane, that’s all. He puts it under his arm, takes the front-door key out of his jacket pocket. A large, heavy, old-fashioned key made of iron. It shines blue-black with much use over the years. He puts the key in the lock and opens the door of the house.

When he has unlocked the door, stale and slightly musty-smelling air meets him. Just before entering the house he turns and looks in all directions. He goes in, locking the door again after him.

He follows the corridor through the house to the kitchen. Opens the kitchen door and goes in. Gets the fire in the stove going with the wood left over from this morning. Fills the steamer with potatoes just as he did first thing today. Feeds the animals and gives them water. Milks the cows and sees to the calves.

This time, however, he doesn’t leave the house as soon as he has finished work in the cowshed. He goes out to the barn, takes the pickax he has left there ready, and tries to dig a hole in the floor at the right-hand corner of the barn.

He loosens the trodden mud floor with the pickax. But just under the surface he meets stony, rocky ground. He tries in another place. No luck there either. He gives up his plan.

Tamps down the loose earth again and scatters straw over it.

He goes back to the kitchen. Hungry after his strenuous work, he cuts himself a piece of smoked meat in the larder. Takes the last of the bread from the kitchen cupboard. A sip of water from the tap, and he leaves the kitchen and the house.

Kurt Huber, mechanic, age 21

It was on the Tuesday, yes, that’s right, Tuesday March 22, 195 . . .

Old Danner, he’d phoned us at the shop a week before, said it was very urgent.

But it wasn’t the sort of weather when you’d want to spend forty-five minutes cycling out there. It kept on snowing, raining, too, now and then. Filthy weather, it was. And we had plenty of work on hand in the firm.

I’ll tell you straight, I don’t like going out to those people at Tannöd.

Why not? Well, they’re kind of funny. Loners. And tightfisted, too. So mean they’d begrudge you every bit of bread, every sip of water.

I’d had to go out there to repair the engine of the machine that slices roots for animal feed once already, that was last summer, and they didn’t even offer me a snack when I took my break. Even though I’d been working away on that engine for over five hours, screwing and unscrewing parts. Not so much as a glass of water or a cup of milk, never mind a beer.

But then again, to be honest, I couldn’t have swallowed a drop they gave me. The whole place was so grubby, really mucky. I can’t stand that kind of thing.