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table in the small, cluttered but immaculately clean kitchen and smiled over at his wife Louisa, who was slicing the rich, black bread on a free standing chopping block beside the sink. "Good morning, liebchen ," he said. "You certainly look lovely this morning."
    Louisa von Weyrauch shot him a cold, withering look, and he fell immediately silent. He gazed down at his hands, folded them on the table, and began to twiddle his thumbs. Louisa piled the sliced bread onto a platter, carried it over to the table, and dropped it down upon the wooden surface with a loud and resounding thud. "Frau Neumann came over this morning to talk to you," she said, her voice even and unaffectionate. "You were taking your morning walk at the time. I told her to come back later." Louisa poured herself a cup of the ersatz concoction which passed for coffee in Germany in 1944. "She was very upset. Devastated, in fact."
    "Why?" Weyrauch asked as he slapped some lard onto a slice of bread, there being no butter. "What’s wrong?"
    "Her son Rudi was killed last week in Norway . The army just informed her today." She sipped quietly from her coffee cup.
    "Oh, that’s terrible," Weyrauch said. "The poor boy. He was only...how old was he? Nineteen?"
    "Eighteen," she corrected him. "Only in the army a few months, and now he’s dead, just like his father last year."
    "Well," he sighed, "I must pay a visit later, a condolence call. Rudi didn’t come to church very often, but his mother always does." He paused and thought for a moment. " Norway ," he muttered. "I thought everything was quiet up there. I thought our problems were all in the east and the south..."
    "He was killed by a sniper," she interrupted. "For some reason, people seem to object to having their countries invaded and occupied."
    "Yes, yes, of course," he muttered.
    "And please don’t talk about ‘our problems’," she went on bitterly. "Our problem is our government. Our problem is that rabid animal in the Chancellery, not the resistance of innocent conquered people." Her voice broke slightly, and she seemed about to weep.
    He reached over without thinking to touch her arm comfortingly. "Now, now, my dear..."
    She pulled her arm away and glared at him. "Why in God’s name are we still living here, Gottfried? If you don’t have the backbone to stand up to these people, why at least don’t we leave the country?"
    "Louisa, my dear, we’ve discussed this before. You know as well as I do that I have responsibilities here in Kappelburg. I can’t just pack up and..."
    "Oh, Gottfried, spare me the homily!" she spat. "You’re hiding behind your collar, just like you always do."
    "That isn’t fair, Louisa," he said softly, trying not to become angry at her for speaking the words which he himself so often thought.
    "It isn’t fair?!" she asked, her eyes wide with feigned surprise. "It isn’t fair?! Don’t tell me that you’ve suddenly developed a devotion to justice!"
    "Louisa..." he muttered darkly.
    "If you’re content to bow and scrape to the Nazis, that’s all fine and good for you. But you could at least consider me for a moment." She leaned forward and shouted in his face, "I want to leave Germany , Gottfried! I want to get away from this insane asylum we live in!"
    "And go where?" he asked, growing angry himself. They had had this conversation a hundred times. "And do what?"
    " Switzerland ," she said, as she always said. "Why can’t you try to get a parish in Switzerland ? Good Lord, Gottfried, you hold a doctoral degree in Theology. Why can’t you find a seminary to teach in? You’re a doctor of medicine. Teach in a medical school, or start a practice! You have training in psychiatry, and Jung is in Switzerland . Go and work with him!"
    "Louisa," he said, "we can’t just pack up and leave. It isn’t that easy…"
    "Not for a woman married to a man like you," she spat. "When I think of what could