Nature’s Violent Display

February 1937–April 1938

Kikuchan taught me the basics of Japanese flower arranging. It became a favourite hobby of mine. I have always been enamoured of plants and flowers, especially orchids.

The first hour of every Sunday afternoon was set aside for my drilling her in English, while the second hour was for my instruction in flower arranging.

Mutsch would purchase several different kinds of flowers and I would look for branches and twigs in the backyard and colourful pebbles and small rocks to use as accents.

I knew all about flowers and how to display them so I did not think that my first lesson in Japanese arrangements would be that difficult.

Kikuchan asked where my tokonoma would be. After she explained that a tokonoma represents the heart of the home I decided that I would designate a small area in a foyer just inside our front door as our tokonoma.

She wondered, “What are you going to put it in?”

“I’ll use a vase,” I said. She didn’t know that word. “Watch me,” I said all-knowingly.

Doris with Ingelore’s first ikebana flower arrangement, 1937.

I selected a few stalks of gladiolus and irises and placed them in the vase, centering it on the table in the foyer. Mutsch came with a camera to take a photograph of my first attempt.

“I’ll stand beside it,” she said posing at the table.

I took the photograph.

“Well?” I asked Kikuchan, pointing to my display.

She bowed and then said, “It’s not good. It’s not art. It’s very bad.”

It was not until my third or fourth lesson that I grasped the complexity of Japanese flower arrangement. I learned that ikebana symbolizes the sky, man, and Earth and that they are expressed by three distinct heights.²⁷ The quintessence of any arrangement is simplicity, elegance, and creativity. Arrangements are situated in the tokonoma, which was originally the honoured place for Buddhist scrolls. The room with the tokonoma is the heart of the home, an area used to present precious art work, and as a symbol of respect for one’s guests and their artistic pleasure.

Every well-educated Japanese girl like Kikuchan is trained in the art of flower arranging. The selection of flowers depended not only on the type of arrangement but also on the season. In the spring, branches of plum, cherry and pear trees were used. And while quince blossoms represent the sky, bright orange birds of paradise, daffodils, and azaleas represent man and pure white Shasta daisies, cyclamen, or tiny dianthus represent the Earth. A good arrangement is simple, clean and pleasing to the eye.

“Cut the branch like so,” Kikuchan demonstrated. She made sure I could see the diagonal cut. Then she picked a particularly lovely flower, “Cut the flower straight. Never cut it like you would a branch! That is wrong, very wrong!”

After several weeks Kikuchan and I congratulated each other. My flower arranging abilities were satisfactory and her English had progressed as well.

“You’re a wonderful teacher,” I said.

She smiled, bowed and then without any hint of modesty said, “I am a good teacher for you!”

I still have my nightmare every so often. It is as frightening in Japan as it was the first time I dreamed it in Berlin. The only good that comes of it is that after I awake, catch my breath, and realize that I am safe, I can revisit its setting in my mind. How I would like to be back in our home in Wilmersdorf and, more importantly, spend hours with Gerta in the library.

On a Sunday morning that spring I woke to a soft breeze coming through my bedroom window. Birds chirped while tree branches scraped against the wall of our villa. But the serenity soon was disturbed when I heard Mutsch and Paps bantering back and forth in the kitchen.

It was very unusual for my parents to discuss something in loud voices. Although I have never heard them shout in anger, I do remember that on this particular occasion the discussion, while not heated, was considerably warmer than the level of tones I was accustomed to hearing.

“And this photograph from the office party?” Mutsch asked slowly and deliberately.

Paps answered, “Arthur was a little tipsy when he asked that we all group together. The parties provide food and drink and he had had his fill by then. These are the people I work with, darling. That is all.”

Mutsch replied sarcastically, “I see that the party is not at the office and I see many of the people you work with wear makeup and kimonos.”

Father exhaled in exasperation. “You know they are geishas. It’s the custom in Japan. They are waitresses. When the photograph arrived in yesterday’s mail I showed it to you right away, didn’t I?”

“So Arthur felt it would be something for your eyes only? Is that why he sent it by mail rather than hand it to you? Was he afraid to do so in my presence?”

Paps’ voice went up a notch. “He’s on business in Europe. He must’ve sent it just before he left. There are no secrets here, darling, from you or from anyone else.”

“Look at them!” Mutsch’s voice was raised now, too. “They’re so elegantly attired, their hair layered on their heads, their faces powdered. And I see they’re the only women there! Where was I? Where was Arthur’s wife? Where was George’s wife? Where was—”

Paps must have been seated because just then I heard a chair scrape across the floor, presumably pushed back so he could stand. Interrupting her, he said, “—you will listen to me now. Every so often Herr Griesbach sponsors a get-together to build morale, afford time away from customers and business, and to provide an occasion for his subordinates to relax and enjoy food and conversation. That’s all.”

“Those women are nothing more than courtesans, Kurt, and you will not tell me otherwise.”

He slammed his hand on the table. “No they’re not! They’re waitresses!”

I sneezed.

“Lorechen?” Mutsch asked.

I was discovered. Walking into the kitchen, I saw Paps, his face crimson. Mutsch’s was similarly coloured, perhaps even more so.

I decided it was best to own up. “I heard you and Paps arguing,” I told Mutsch, forcing a yawn.

Paps reached for me. I went to him and embraced him. “It’s not an argument. Your mother and I are just discussing some things.”

“Because of the photograph?” I asked.

Instantly I realized that I had let the proverbial cat out of the bag.

“How long have you been listening to us, young lady?” Mutsch demanded.

I went to Mutsch and embraced her. “I’m sorry but I find it upsetting when you and father are having a disagreement.”

“Well, the proof is in the pudding,” Mutsch said handing me the photograph. “What do you make of this, Lorechen?”

I looked at it. A group of shoeless gentlemen were seated on tatami mats in the background of the photo. Masks belonging to kabuki dancers hung on the walls of the restaurant

“It looks like a very nice restaurant,” I said innocently.

“And what else?” Mutsch yelped.

Bowls of soup and platters laden with fish, meat, and vegetables, ceramic containers overflowing with rice, and porcelain cups filled with sake were everywhere. I tried to be as nonchalant as possible. “The cooks must have worked hard to prepare all that food.”

With that my parents looked at each other and then simultaneously burst into laughter.

“Our precious daughter won’t take sides!” Paps said.

Father explained again what I had already heard him try to explain to Mutsch. Then he said, “There’s music, too. Some of the geishas sing while others strum an instrument called the samisen, something akin to a lute or a ukulele.”

“So it’s business, in a way,” I said trying to bring the discussion to an end, hoping to placate Mutsch and release my father from the hook from which he was dangling.

“It’s very strange,” he said, “sitting on the floor while eating and being so graciously entertained.” He quickly realized Mutsch might incorrectly interpret what he meant by “being entertained.” I know I did. “What I mean to say,” he offered, pointing to the photograph, “is that it’s the custom not to stretch out one’s legs. None of us Westerners manage to remain that way for long. We’re always excusing ourselves to walk about to have the blood return to our lower extremities!”

Mutsch, with finality, said, “You must remind Mr. deCouto to leave his camera at home the next time Herr Griesbach summons everyone for a . . .” she hesitated, “. . . the next time he summons everyone for a business dinner.”

Her sarcasm was muted though direct. I am sure Paps gathered her meaning.

Because Kikuchan was helping me learn Japanese, Mutsch reasoned that it was essential to keep employing her. She also was an excellent housekeeper. Obachan was indispensable because she prepared meals from ingredients that were relatively inexpensive and easy to procure and because she was older and more experienced Mutsch could rely on her to keep an eye on Kikuchan and me.

“We’re helping them,” my father explained to Mutsch. “The amount of money we spend on their salaries is small to us but large to them. Think of it as economic assistance. Either way, we won’t be in Japan forever.”

And Paps explained that our stay in Japan would depend on two things.

“It may be that when the business expands to the level Herr Griesbach demands we may need to consider relocating to America. There’s a large company office in New York City.”

“And the other?” Mutsch asked.

Paps drew in his breath, squeezing his temples between his fingers to try to ease the pain of another nagging headache. “Our company has seen a staggering increase in orders from the Japanese government for certain goods. Requisitions for some items have numbered in the tens of thousands. I’m certain the upswing is for the military. The Japanese are intent on overrunning China.”²⁸

“Do you mean . . .” Mutsch offered.

“Yes, Japan has dreams of the conquest of Asia. Also it may mean that they are stockpiling goods, gearing up for a defence of their islands from the fascists and communists. No one knows how far Hitler and Stalin and even Mussolini will go to . . .”

He did not finish his sentence. His words hung in the air, unfinished.

Mutsch changed the subject. “Well, luckily all of Lorechen’s assessment reports from the Canadian School have been excellent. Perhaps you should begin to consider going to college in America.”

“Yes, mother,” I said.

Two weeks passed with no news about the future of our family in Japan.

One night at supper Paps announced, “Does anyone here know how to ski?” Mutsch and I laughed. “Next month we’re going to the Japanese Alps for a short vacation and we’ll learn to ski.”

“Oh, I can’t wait!” I said eagerly.

“But,” he said, “before we do that we need to do something else.”

Mutsch tried to conceal a smile.

They were hiding something. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’re moving!” Paps exclaimed.

Over the next few days we packed and organized our things. For several afternoons Mutsch and I did some rigorous shopping looking for appropriate clothing for our ski trip.

As we readied ourselves to go the recurring cloud of regret settled upon us—it was difficult to say farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Dimitriev and our other neighbours and friends.

Fortunately, our goodbyes didn’t need to extend to Kikuchan and Obachan since Paps had arranged for them to come to our new home with us.

Not only was our vacation in the Japanese Alps a welcomed change of routine but it was also an amazing adventure filled with exhilaration and discovery.

The mountains were deliciously imposing, their grand peaks covered in snow, the clouds about them singularly white and majestic, the underlying rock peeking through in pinto fashion where some of the snow had melted. The radiant sunshine was so intense it nearly burned my fair skin. The air was bitingly crisp and crystal clear, so very chilling yet refreshing. I believe we were near Matsumoto, an outpost surrounded by imposing summits.

The lodge was enormous, its masonry base made up of assorted rocks and boulders solidly supported the wooden upper stories of the building. The views from its many balconies were breathtaking.

After being outfitted with boots, skis, and poles the three of us ventured out into the snow. It was crunchy, a very thin layer of ice having formed on top of the powder from intermittent freezing and thawing. We struggled sideways, plopping our skis one by one and impaling our poles into the ground for support. We were attempting to get further away from the wooden terrace while trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Many people were gliding past us as if we were standing still which for the most part is what we were doing. When we had flailed past the limits of the terrace I turned to see Paps suddenly crouch, pierce the snow with his poles, push off, and then effortlessly glide down the decline away from us. Mutsch and I were flabbergasted.

The lodge near Matsumoto and the postcard from their travels that featured the view from the balcony.

“I didn’t know you could ski!” I shouted after him.

Mutsch yelled, too. “I didn’t either!” Then with an admiring glance, “That man never ceases to surprise me.”

Me, too, I thought.

“Well?” Mutsch asked me, “Are we going to stand here all day . . .” Before she finished her sentence, she was off. A few seconds later, she was down. In between bursts of laughter I heard her shout, “Your turn, Lorechen!”

Skiing is an exercise in balance and equilibrium, neither of which came easily to me. I tried several times, warily progressing a metre here and a metre there only to have my body leaning, dipping, faltering, and then collapsing under the unforgiving force of gravity. Before long my mittens and leggings were soaked through as was the seat of my trousers. And although my back ached, all was well when we partook of the soothing warmth of the hot springs. It was the first time I was outside immersed in water when there was snow on the ground.

I reflect now both on those days and on that particular experience to discover that each underscores the broad scope of the Japanese lifestyle. Japan is a country so rich in culture and history that neither artist nor poet can adequately describe it. The landscapes are beautiful and its people kind. Yet at times we had difficulty because Asian and Western customs were often at odds with one another. In spite of these challenges, I’m proud to say that for more than a decade I was a Japanese citizen.

In the spring of 1938, the rainy season started and ended with a clap of thunder. At its onset the downpours were so unrelenting I believed there would be no end to the rain. For six weeks, two weeks longer than meteorologists had expected, angry clouds dumped torrents of water on the already saturated earth. The air was hot and humid. Thunderstorms were continuous. Each day seemed hotter and more oppressive than the day before.

Kurt and Doris preparing to ski (top left and right). Doris encountering difficulty (bottom left). Ingelore on the slopes (bottom right).

Indoors, everything smelled musty and dank. Nothing ever dried completely. Books and shoes would mildew before one’s eyes. Furniture was damp and sticky. The sun never came out even when there were a few short breaks in the cloud cover. Everyone was irritable.

On clear days the view from our hilltop home was beautiful. Kobe, surrounded by gently sloping hills, is situated around a natural harbour formed by the Inland Sea. When the weather allowed, we would stare into the distance at the shimmering white cherry blossoms and pink azaleas thriving everywhere. Our first summer in Japan, I was astounded by the profusion of orchids of all sizes and shades, from delicate cream to dark mauve, competing for space among the small wild roses that grew in abundance throughout the tended gardens.

But in the spring of 1938, the view was shrouded in grey—drab and dreary. The azaleas in front of our home slouched, drowning in puddles of water. The tops of the low-growing junipers were barely visible above the pools that engulfed them. The white river stones that had been raked around the base of the plants had already washed down the hillside.

More and more of the soft soil was eroding, carving ruts into the hills behind our home. The roots of trees and bushes were exposed where the unremitting rain had washed away the earth.

Mutsch and I, together with Kikuchan and Obachan, were standing at the kitchen watching the muddy waters stream down the hill.

“I wish it would stop raining,” I complained.

A few moments later we sensed that something was about to happen. Outside on the balcony, Mutsch pointed down. “See the stones? See how they’re swept down the hill? Do you hear them banging against the retaining wall?”

Then, I saw a much larger rock loosen and I watched in disbelief as it surged its way down the hillside. The force of impact cracked the retaining wall. Mutsch had seen it, too. She grabbed the three of us and led us to the front of the house. We heard snapping noises, then a rushing of water. Part of the retaining wall had given way.

“Everyone! Everyone out of the house! Now! Now!” Mutsch screamed. Kikuchan screeched and bellowed, “Dete ike! Get out!”

Ingelore’s second home in Kobe with the prominent retaining wall.

We fled outside into the rain. A second later, an uprooted pine tree went crashing through my bedroom window. Part of its trunk and several large branches rested halfway through the sliding doors that led from there into the living room.

We huddled near the corner of the house that, for the moment, seemed safe. Everywhere there were masses of mud, stones, and broken tree trunks. Then we felt a gentle rumbling beneath our feet. To our horror a mass of earth broke free and slid away, rushing downhill toward the houses below. The staccato of the banging and cracking of rocks and trees echoing below was deafening. And there was that odour, the acrid, pungent smell of rotting vegetation and decomposition.

“We must go down the hill!” Mutsch yelled.

Holding on to one another, trembling with fear, we stumbled along, sometimes stepping, other times sliding uncontrollably while desperately trying to maintain our balance. Below we saw neighbours cowering against fallen trees. Everyone was stunned, frightened, and rushing toward hardened ground.

At the bottom of the hill, heads were counted. Our neighbours, their children, and our servants all were accounted for.

A man came running down the hill, yelling in Japanese. I understood most of the words but could not make out the meaning. One of our neighbours, a man from America, interpreted for us. “He says the mud slide is rushing toward the harbour and business district.”

“Where’s father?” I asked Mutsch. “When’s he coming home?” I started crying. Then some of the children with us began crying, too. Mutsch tried to comfort everyone but it was obvious that she was preoccupied with concern for Paps’ safety.

We were in trouble. The road that descended the hill was blocked by mud and debris so there was no way for us to get down. But we did not know whether our house would hold onto its footings or collapse and then slide down on top of us. Mud oozed and slunk its way down the hill. Our small outcrop of safety was shrinking. We were soaked, our clothes caked with mud, and our shoes stuck in the gluey quicksand of the pasty soil.

In an instant a light shone brightly. “Look!” I yelled, “The sun is out!” Then there was a loud clap of thunder. In the chaos, we hadn’t noticed that the rain had stopped. We cheered as the sun broke through the clouds. Above us the mud had stopped moving. It appeared as if the long storm had passed.

We stayed where we were until Paps came home. Despite the terrible confusion he had managed to find us. He had waded through water and mud above his knees. We hugged.

Most roads were impassable, blocked by sludge, uprooted trees, automobiles that had been swept along, and even sections of houses. Thankfully, neither our home nor the houses nearby had been carried away. The water in the harbour, usually crystal clear, was an ugly, dirty yellow and full of debris. Much of the city was covered in mire. Bodies of animals and even some humans were seen floating by. The stench was so strong we could almost taste it.

But we were safe and together again. “Were you frightened?” Paps asked.

“Yes, we were terrified. Especially when the tree went through the house,” I whispered.

With stoic resignation in his voice, he said, “That’s how nature can be. Usually it’s beautiful. At other times it can be very destructive. Nature is just like people. Most often they are good but other times they are evil.”

I understood. Before that day, I had never thought of the peculiar parallel between nature and human nature. Not until the earth turned to soup did I see the connection.

The mudslides had stopped. After a cursory inspection of our home by emergency workers a short time later, it was decided that we could return to our home if we avoided my bedroom and the kitchen. Paps was encouraged to procure restoration estimates as soon as possible. He said he would do so in the morning.

“I’ll arrange for repairs,” he told Mutsch, “and while I’m doing so, you and Lorechen will go to Kamakura, if the trains are running.”

“Why?” Mutsch wondered.

“I want both of you out of Kobe and away from any danger. There could be an outbreak of disease. I promise I’ll join you there as soon as our home is rebuilt, cleaned, and refurbished.”

The following morning on our way to the railroad station, Mutsch and I saw the devastation caused by the mudslides. The ruts of drying and dried mud were everywhere. The swath of disaster had mercilessly drowned the once-pristine city of Kobe. It was tragic to see many small fragile wooden houses, some of which had been pulled off their foundations, crumpled as if they had been crushed by a giant’s footsteps. Beautifully tended gardens had been turned to swamp. Rocks and fallen trees blocked many of the roads. Here and there people were beginning to dig through the slimy mess for their belongings. The smell was overpowering.

After a long train ride, Mutsch and I arrived in Kamakura, still stunned by the horror of the past twenty-four hours. We had lived through the worst mudslides and flooding that Kobe had experienced in many years. Kamakura felt like a world away.

We checked in to the hotel. The lobby was magnificently appointed with gleaming tiles, polished hardwoods and brass, colourful ikebana displays and varied assortments of flowers. Our room was similarly tastefully decorated.

Ingelore on one of the Hotel Kawana’s balconies.

The day after we arrived, Mutsch and I walked among the lush greenery at the limits of the golf course abutting the hotel, enjoying the spectacular views. Not too far in the distance we saw gentle waves striking against the craggy rocks along the shoreline of the Inland Sea. Sunshine danced on the water. Feather-like clouds floated by. All was peaceful.

On the third day, during breakfast, a Japanese police officer came in. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. First in English, then in French, and then in Japanese he told everyone to be cautious because of an approaching typhoon!

Were storms pursuing us?

We finished our meal and then went outside. The wind had picked up. All at once the sky turned black and the rain started.

“Not again!” I moaned. “We won’t be able to take our golf lesson!”

The rain increased in intensity. Mutsch and I, along with several other guests, ran into the lobby and through the French doors into the enormous ballroom. The cathedral ceiling was three stories high. Shimmering crystal chandeliers were suspended from honey-stained wooden beams. Against one of the walls, opposite the doors, stood an immense fruitwood bar with hundreds of liquor bottles displayed on mirrored shelving, rows of glasses on each end.

We could see sheets of rain were blowing against the glass and metal frames of the French doors. Over the sound of the torrents we heard waves crashing against the rocks along the shoreline only thirty metres away. The wind howled and hissed, tossing lawn chairs and tables about.

A group of convalescing Japanese army officers in snow-white hospital kimonos huddled in one corner of the room. Mutsch and I had met some of them the day before. In very broken English they said they had been wounded in the war and were on a few days’ leave from a nearby military hospital.²⁹

Off by themselves, in a small recessed area, a young European couple on their honeymoon who only had eyes for each other were oblivious to what was going on outside. By the bar, a group of middle-aged Japanese men still in their golf garb guzzled their drinks and waited impatiently to resume their game. Other guests were gathered in small groups about the ballroom. Many of them were whispering in English.

We stood near the doors, entranced by nature’s violent display.

A slender young man in a hotel uniform approached. “It would be better to stand away from the windows,” he cautioned in English. “One never knows what—”

He never finished his sentence. We heard a horrifying sucking noise followed by a deafening crash. The French doors had been blown into the ballroom! Shards of broken glass danced in the air. The heavy metal doorframes, bent and twisted, the doors hanging from their broken hinges were banging back and forth. High above our heads the chandeliers swayed menacingly. People screamed. Some ran toward the back of the ballroom trying to get out into the hallway. The manager and a young assistant stopped them.

“Please! Stay calm,” he pleaded in perfect English. As he spoke his assistant translated into Japanese. “At the moment this room, especially the back area, is the safest place in the hotel.” He held up his hands. “Please do not return to your rooms. The windows to the balconies could shatter. We are doing everything in our power to keep you as safe as possible.”

Several hotel employees came running. The manager shouted orders “Board up those doors at once!”

My heart was pounding. “Mutsch,” I panted, “this is no better than being in Kobe. I’m just as scared as I was a few days ago.” I felt a spray of water hit my face. The wind picked papers and napkins and blew them about the room.

She was calm. “This is not the same, dear. You heard the manager. We’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly.

The typhoon continued to scream and whistle. In our alcove, a small window above our heads had been spared. Through it we could see the sky had taken on a strange yellow-green tint. Workmen barricaded the French doors with heavy wooden planks and while we watched them struggle against the wind the lights went out, plunging us into near-total darkness! Several women screamed. Not a minute later, more employees arrived with oil lanterns. The glow of the lanterns reflected off the mirrors and glass to provide adequate light.

Suddenly I heard Mutsch gasp! I turned to her and saw a rolling, moving carpet of black! Terrified rats, pursued by large cats, raced about, over shelves, around the bar, and in between chairs and tables. Round and round they went, the rats screeching eerily, the cats darting after them. We heard more glasses and bottles crash to the floor. Some guests became hysterical: screaming, flailing their arms, and running in circles. The rats ran in wider circles. Flushed out by the typhoon they raced through the ballroom looking for an escape. Employees and bartenders wielding bottles and kitchen utensils chased after them. At once the cats and rats engaged, tearing at each other, biting and scratching. Fur was flying!

Eventually, the cats and the employees won the battle! I had been clinging to Mutsch, too afraid to watch, but now I released my grip and cautiously peeked around. The cats paraded triumphantly out of the ballroom through the back doors, their broken tails held high.

The noise of the wind and rain slowly subsided. The manager proclaimed, “All clear! All clear!” His employees seemed unfazed. They continued with their efforts to clean up.

“What could possibly happen next?” I asked Mutsch. She smiled. “Well, Lorechen, I think we’ve had enough excitement for a while. Let’s hope that’s the end of it.”

We were permitted to return to our room which miraculously had not been damaged. Exhausted by the day’s events, we soon fell asleep.

In the middle of the night we awoke to a loud knock at our door. Mutsch answered. A hotel employee told us that once again we were in the storm’s path and that we must leave our room immediately. Mutsch and I hastened out into the hallway, where we were told to sit on the carpet with our backs against the wall. We could hear the typhoon race over us. We sat there for almost two hours. Finally, the storm had spent its fury. Mutsch and I returned to our room and collapsed on our beds.

In the morning, the air was crisp and cool. The sky was a wondrous shade of azure. The Inland Sea was calm. By the afternoon, gardeners had cleared away the debris.

Oddly, the turf was dry enough for our golf lesson!

Two weeks later Paps arrived. I recounted to him much of what Mutsch and I had experienced especially the details of the awful cat and rat chase.

“It’s hard to believe how violent nature has been these past several weeks,” Paps said. Then, pointing to a copse of pines he added, “Those old trees over there have withstood many storms and the constant pounding of the surf. They survive because the sun shines on them.” He looked toward the sky shielding his eyes with his hand. “The storms bring the rain without which nothing can survive.” Turning his gaze on me, “As for the rats? Well, I don’t care for them either, Lorechen. But they have a purpose, too. They provide food for larger animals. It’s nature’s way.”

Kurt and Ingelore standing at the shoreline of the Inland Sea.

Kurt, Doris, and Ingelore posing with the group of convalescing Japanese soldiers.

Then he became glum. “Lorechen, during the cleaning and rebuilding of our home, the workers found your diary and your drawing pad. I’m sorry to say they were ruined. I placed them in the sun for an entire day but the ink and coloured pencil had run together. I’m so sorry.”

I was despondent. All my writings, all my drawings were gone.

Mutsch ached for me. “Please, Lorechen, try not to be sad. You still have your memories. I am certain that you’ll return again one day to the recording of your adventures.”

“Yes, mother,” I said half-heartedly. “I’ll try.”

Paps kissed my forehead. “Very good, my angel. And now I need to tell you both that there have been developments in Europe.”

Mutsch and I were silent.

“There will be war. Six months ago Hitler and Mussolini met. The Italian leader was celebrated and nearly dragged across Germany to be shown the strength and might of the Nazi regime. He was trying to impress Mussolini and to show that they wanted the same thing, that they had the same goals. There will be war.”

Mutsch was visibly shaken. “What of our relatives? What of our friends still in Germany?”

“I do not know,” Paps said. Then haltingly, “A month ago, Austria fell.”

Mutsch couldn’t catch her breath. “What’s next? Poland?”

Paps reached for her hand. “I’m not sure. Perhaps within a matter of weeks it will be Czechoslovakia.”

“Are we safe here?” I asked.

His brow was furrowed. “Yes, Lorechen, we are. The turmoil is half a world away.” Then he mused, “Try to remember what nature recently taught us. There is a balance to everything. In its agony, some of the world will surrender but much of it, in its strength, will become more resolute in the face of evil. Though we’ve endured many trials, I fear you, too, may have some troubling moments in your life that are yet to come. Like a typhoon, I hope they’ll be brief.” As was his habit, he kissed my forehead. “Always look up, my angel, and try to capture the sun!”