Time Travel E-Book

Lothar Berg

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 361

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Born in 1950, Lothar Berg's life was shaped early on by the aftermath of World War II, which affected his family as well. His father's suicide raised questions for him that could only be answered in the course of a long and eventful life. Early travel experiences in India and on the Asian continent inspired him to discover new worlds in South America and to embark on large-scale construction projects based on his own visions. An enriching, eventful biography that highlights not only the secret entanglements of life but also the challenging political and social conditions in South American countries such as Bolivia, Peru, Venezuela, and Colombia.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Personality description

Time Travel

Thoughts Bahia Lodge 2008

The sixties – years of change

Ladakh

Uzbekistan

India or South America

It's in your hands

Return 2007 – June

Siggi – my friend

Hydropower

The end of a journey

IMPRINT

Personality description

Birth chart Maya Zodiac:

Destiny: World Spanner – Energy of Death

Hidden Energy: Eagle – Vision

Analogous Energy: The Wanderer on the Clouds

Occult Energy: Warrior

Leading Energy: Timeless Magician

I am the "Revealer of Sacred Secrets"

Time Travel

It was a typical November day.

It had been drizzling almost all day, and the cold seemed to seep right through the clothes and into the bones.

There was only one month and four days left until Christmas Eve.

The clock's hands had already made their eleventh nighttime revolution.

I didn't want to wait any longer.

In Bingen, that night, I boarded the train of my life.

To my delight, besides my mother, a very loving and caring woman who would be celebrating her twenty-sixth birthday at the end of the year, my father was also there, a big, stately bear with large paws that could surely defend me easily at any time.

The big bear had already celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday in the spring.

And there was my brother, who was a year and two months older than me and would play the role of big brother for me for many, many years to come.

I was happy to begin the journey of my life in this compartment with this group of people.

More than five years had passed since that devastating war had ended.

And yet it was still present everywhere. Not only externally in the appearance of the city, but also in the mix of people on the streets.

Black – Gray

The wonder weapons were no longer being used. The superiority was too great. Even the last reserves, which had been knowingly squandered, could no longer avert the inevitable . There was no final victory, only incomprehensible horror.

Was this the nation of poets, philosophers, and musicians?

Hard-working and God-fearing people became ruthless machines. Controlled by the idea that the blood in their veins enabled them to perform extraordinary deeds.

Of course, in retrospect, there is an explanation that is also historically comprehensible. But is this a justification for what came next?

After the Holy Roman Empire, things had become somewhat quiet for the Germans.

Great nations had entered the European stage. England had always viewed the continent with suspicion. The power of Spain, the Netherlands, and France had to be weakened and was weakened when it was essential.

After the resurgent Second German Empire combined with the Central European superpower of Habsburg-Austria-Hungary, it was only logical that this would lead to conflict.

What right would Emperor Ferdinand have had to declare war on the British if they had avenged the death of Prince Charles at the hands of the separatists in Cardiff?

When two parties do the same thing, it is not always the same.

In the end, there was total collapse. Not only territorially and economically – much more profound was the collapse of moral values.

No attempt at explanation, however tentative, could stand up to the images of the inconceivable.

Due to the scale of the disaster in those early years, apologies were also no means of alleviating the burden weighing on the shoulders of the survivors.

Those responsible – the masterminds – had cowardly withdrawn from it all.

In the eyes of these cowards, the chosen people were not worthy of continuing to live. They shirked responsibility and left fate to take its course.

In addition to this deep and heavy burden, there was also the struggle for survival. The mental strain was compounded by physical exertion – carrying on, not asking for pity, and not conveying suffering through a desperate look.

The war was still very present in the nightmares and in the hearts of many people. It was incomprehensible that they had endured all this. At that point, I was not yet aware of how deep and painful these memories were. Who could have imagined what fatal decision this would ultimately lead to?

The first few years in the compartment with my parents and brother were very peaceful. I discovered so many little things to play with. Even though they were always the same unpainted building blocks, they changed every time in my imagination.

They could take the form of animals or people, but also cars.

My brother and I were especially happy when our mother baked a cake and we were allowed to lick the bowl with the leftover cake batter.

Sweet puddings had the same effect, and our hearts were overjoyed.

The train rolled through the days and nights in a steady, soothing rhythm.

A change was afoot. Our mother, who had always been affectionate in her mothering of us boys, sometimes seemed to be even more sentimental. And when we hugged her, it became increasingly difficult to wrap our arms around her. Her body seemed to be growing. And then came the day when our parents told us that we would soon have a new passenger in our family compartment.

So that was the explanation—our excitement about the new guest grew every day. And almost like a Christmas present, two years after I boarded the train of life, we were introduced to our little sister. Monika Margarete, a small, delicate creature with black hair. I looked at her with wide eyes, trying to process it all. I must have been speechless, because my mother expected a comment and asked me for one.

"What do you say, Lothar?" she asked me. "A little black girl." With these words, I welcomed our little sister. All the seats in the train compartment of my life were now occupied – not knowing that two people were traveling invisibly with us in my father's seat.

There was my big brother, who bore his grandfather's name in his honor, then our sister, who enriched the family around Christmas time in 1952.

A soul community that did not yet realize how deeply intertwined they were.

We had a grandfather who had not spared his life for either the emperor or the Führer. To his regret, he had to abandon his almost completed architecture studies due to a lack of financial resources. And so he earned his living as a sales representative for a tobacco manufacturer.

My father had been raised in the beliefs and norms of the Greater German Reich. At the age of twenty-four, he had his first combat experience. Born in a small wine village in the Rhine-Nahe region, raised with clear and honest family ties, he was to break down many years before his time in the coming events. It was a village world. Everyone knew everyone else. Children went out to work in the fields at an early age – everyone ate together from the same pot. He was the youngest of twelve siblings. His older brothers and sisters took turns looking after him so that he would not lack anything emotionally. They were deeply religious, and his mother would have liked him to become a priest.

He was a tall, handsome lad, like many in thousands of villages across the empire. They were molded into swift greyhounds, tough as leather and hard as Krupp steel.

He did not become a priest—he became part of the generation that believed unwaveringly in this great historical moment and leader.

My mother, born just under nine years later, came from a sheltered middle-class home. Her upbringing was shaped by the fact that she was to be a proper housewife and mother. She attended a domestic science school, and of course she was also a member of the German Reich's girls' organization (BDM).

At the end of the war, she was a delicate twenty-one years old. Images and events from the glory days to the brutal end had become engraved in her memory.

During the war years, she worked for a time in a photo lab, where she developed films that shook her. No one spoke openly about what they had experienced or seen at that time. Neither when neighbors were taken away nor about other dubious events.

It was only at the end of her life that she talked about these things and also about how dangerous it was to leave the house in the post-war period.

When she went to the farmers to exchange food for family mementos, she didn't just put on her oldest and smelliest clothes. She even perfumed herself with rancid fat on the appropriate parts of her body. The scent of survival for many young women. Aud de Vivir.

She never revealed any further details. She took these memories with her to her grave.

Two people who met in post-war Germany and started a family. Each carried their personal memories hidden in their hearts.

Every German... every person in Europe who had experienced this war was haunted by phantoms. It was not the time for psychotherapy.

We lived in Bingerbrück for the first four years, where my father worked as stationmaster at the freight yard. A small town on the confluence of the Nahe and Rhine rivers. The Rhine, Father Rhine, as this great and important river was called. The romantic Rhine, known as " " (Father Rhine) because of the many castles that could be found on both sides, especially from Bingen onwards. And there was also Germania, an oversized statue of a woman, above Rüdesheim, on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by seemingly endless vineyards. Germania, the great mother figure, who looked out over the Rhine with pride but also with menace, to protect her children from aggression from the West. After the war with the French, which ultimately led to the founding of the Second German Empire, this monument was erected with pride by a newly formed European superpower. After many European neighbors had already formed alliances and extended their power to countries outside Europe, our fatherland also wanted to find and assert its place among the dominant powers.

Our fatherland is and always has been a great and important nation – not because of its territorial expansion or the wars it has won – no, but rather because of its contribution to music and philosophy. We should have been proud and continued to seek world fame in these areas – but no, we wanted to get involved – involved in a new world order.

Until the bitter end, which became increasingly apparent to me as I grew older.

We lived in a small attic apartment. What has remained in my memory are the sloping walls of our children's room and the open hallway. The stairs seemed endless. Due to the small windows, we didn't have the light that could have sparked our children's imagination. There was the children's room, our parents' room, the kitchen, and a small bathroom.

To take a bath, you had to light a fire in a bath stove with wood and briquettes. This fire heated the entire apartment and also the bath water. However, this treat was only available on Saturday afternoons.

The water had to be enough for the whole family, so the three of us children bathed together.

It was fun—even without bubbles, a rubber duck, or a Barbie siren.

If you had to go to the toilet at night, you had to cross a small hallway. I didn't like walking through the hallway because light came in through the front door, whose glass panes were covered with small curtains. Someone could have seen me and watched me from outside.

It was an unpleasant feeling. A little later, I would experience fear. I slept deeply and soundly, curled up in my blanket. I felt two large hands reach under my blanket. And then I was lifted out of my warm surroundings. I felt the coolness of the night and froze. I couldn't even scream. What was that? Who was tearing me out of my safe nighttime journey into my inner self?

I resisted—I wanted to free myself from this dependence. "Ludi, what are you doing?" I heard my mother say. The sound of her voice was meant to calm me, but it was already too late. My father, who really only wanted to give me a loving hug before going to bed, had lost his grip. I fell from his hands—not into the warm, soft bed—no, onto the edge of the bed. Since that night, I had a small, about one-centimeter-long stitched scar above my left eyebrow. And also since that time, before my father gave me his goodnight wishes, he kissed my scar. It was the first small scar he inflicted on me – very, very small compared to the scar that would influence my heart and my path many, many years later.

When I close my eyes and think back to that time, life was gray—dark gray. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that Bingerbrück was a hub for German Federal Rail transport trains. Everything changed. The Reichsbahn became the Bundesbahn—the Reich offices became federal offices.

The exhaust fumes that shot into the sky from the train locomotives' chimneys had extremely high ozone levels.

At that time, apart from scientists, hardly anyone knew what ozone was. The houses were gray – the clothes were sad colors. The few cars you saw were sad colors.

It almost seemed as if the flowers were ashamed of the joy their colors could convey.

My shoes were my brother's – his pants, although still too big, were adjusted with suspenders and belts. Even these clothes had none of the cheerful colors that children wear today. Shoes were made of leather and were bought in a size that would still fit the following year. We boys had leather pants and we loved them. But there was a practical reason for this. They were more durable and if you bought them big enough, they would last between three and five years. In the morning, my brother and I went to kindergarten. It was a church institution. We learned to pray and behave well. We knew nothing of what our parents or neighbors had experienced. And when we were allowed to, we romped and played boisterously, like all children in the world.

When I was four years old, the train moved from Bingerbrück to Mainz. My father had a new job at the Federal Railway Authority in Mainz. We moved into a large four-room apartment in a railway housing estate opposite the city hospital.

The great thing about this new home for us children was that it had a large courtyard with a lawn. And above all, there were lots of children to play and romp around with. And there was the little square. Today, it is certainly blocked by parked cars. Actually, it was almost a square with eight large chestnut trees – a place ideal for playing soccer. Opposite our apartment was the cannon – a war memorial for the soldiers who fell in World War I. With a large lawn – which was also perfect for playing soccer. From the soccer field to the lawn, everything was there.

Playing soccer was freedom for us boys. There were also races around the blocks – years later, for those whose families had the money to buy roller skates, this became a roller skating rink. The sidewalk became a danger zone for pedestrians. And then there was the danger of cars. And so it happened that a neighbor boy was hit by a car. It was only his lower leg and he survived, but his name changed after that: he was now known as the limper.

We wanted to live, to live life to the fullest. And there in Mainz, this was much more possible. Germany seemed to be compensating for the loss of life caused by the war. There was no such thing as "Mother's Little Helper" yet, so we ran wild wherever and however we could. Toys at that time were jump ropes and clickers – a small hole, and you played. Those who had glass clickers were highly regarded. Iron clickers were status symbols and even more valuable. People would meet up and everyone would show off their clicker bag like a trophy.

In the hippie era, they were no longer clicker bags, but colorfully embroidered and fringed hashish bags. Even then, they were a kind of status symbol.

And then there were the ruins. The ultimate adventure playground. Rooms inside the houses that had been filled in. Since we were still small, we could slip through like mice. Some areas were still open, and if you had a flashlight, the adventure began. There were books, clothes, household items, and always the danger that the rubble would give way and you could be buried underneath. There was a door that we opened, and what we saw there had probably happened more than ten years ago.

The half-decayed corpse of a German soldier. This eyeless skull stared at us eerily. Fear ran through our limbs, and my brother and I stared motionless at this soldier. We looked death straight in the eye. A few years later, death would grip our hearts even more intensely.

We brought the machine gun to the surface. My brother had found a briefcase. Inside were small bottles. They looked like little liquor bottles or essences for creating chemical reactions. Or drugs?

We received a terrible tirade from our father, who also took the bag. We promised never to go into the rubble again. My parents and those of my playmates strictly forbade us from playing in this playground. But the adventure was just too great. Next to the rubble, there was another spot. This spot had a large bomb crater. This place was commonly called the Roman camp. And indeed, when we found shards there while playing, employees of the Roman-Germanic Museum came and questioned us children. The playground was fenced off—one less adventure.

And then there were these monsters – vehicles that occasionally climbed up the Linsenberg and drove past our house – all the windows vibrated, announcing their arrival in advance.

You could hear the rattling of these monsters from far away. They didn't have wheels like normal vehicles; no, their wheels moved a metal belt instead. They were large, heavy monsters – dark green in color with a large white star on the side and on the front. Above this movement mechanism, there was a small movable housing with a hatch – a cover. This attachment could move, and like a long Pinocchio nose, there was a giant pipe. Almost like the cannon monument on our soccer field.

Whenever we heard the roar of these vehicles, we children all ran to the main road. It was sensational; strange-looking people often looked out of the hatches. They had a kind of mask on their heads and in their ears – like at carnival – and many of these aliens also had a different appearance. Their lips and noses, and especially their skin color, were so different from what we had seen before. When they laughed or spoke , you could see their large white teeth. They were a kind of human-animal-machine.

Years later, I read something similar in a description of the conquistadors by the indigenous people. In fact, people thought that the horses with their riders and helmets were an alien phenomenon. And their weapons, similar to American tanks, brought something deadly and threatening.

What excited us children emotionally were not the tanks or the extraterrestrials—no, it was the small, thin candies wrapped in white paper with a green arrow.

No, they weren't candies, because you didn't suck on them, you chewed on the mass. Without losing it, you extracted sugar from this mass with every chew.

These new extraterrestrial candies were called chewing gum.

And so we ran alongside the alien vehicles, shouting over and over again: "Schu In Gam." My first English word – many more were to follow – because they were the key to my adventures.

These aliens were often the topic of conversation during dinner afterwards.

Our father explained to us that these vehicles and their crews did not come from alien planets, but that they were Americans – there were Americans with black skin, but also with white skin.

Americans – of course we knew them. It was a sweet, round little cake about ten centimeters in diameter, with a frosting or chocolate coating on the bottom.

And so, with the understanding of a five- or six-year-old, I classified the USA as a superpower.

Our father also explained that black Americans were actually Africans. Africa, a continent where most of the population was black. A sad, poor continent, and that these African Americans were not treated very well – they were made to fight for America, even though in their hearts they were more African than American.

Somehow, from that day on, the black man had an influence on our family. I remember that when I was naughty, I was even threatened with the black man who would take me away to Africa. Due to the proximity to the hospital, you would occasionally see a black man in a white doctor's coat – but these were only visible from a distance.

The distance to the kindergarten in Zahlbach was very far. It was only my big brother and I who made this journey alone every day. Our sister was still too small.

We had to cross the busy road right in front of our house. Then there was a long, hilly path through a park to the kindergarten.

We took our sandwiches with us for lunch – one with cheese for my brother and one with sausage for me. We each had a small leather shoulder bag in which we stored our breakfast. And if we didn't manage to eat it all, we had the rest in the afternoon. According to our mother, this tasted especially good because the birds had pecked at it. We also had an apple when it was harvest time. That was it.

The day came when my brother and I were walking home from kindergarten. To get to our house, we had to cross the main road. My brother, quick to make decisions, had taken advantage of a gap in the traffic to get to the other side. I shouted for him to wait for me. Especially since I suddenly saw a black man coming towards me. I felt fear and shouted louder and louder: "Alfred, don't leave me alone!"

At that moment, the black man grabbed me by the hip and, pressing me against his hip, carried me to the other side. I tried to fight back, and when I had solid ground under my feet again, I ran as fast as I could toward the house, up the stairs, and toward my mother. I had made it and escaped being kidnapped to Africa.

It wasn't St. Christopher who brought a child to the other side, no, it was a budding black doctor who took on this protective role. Even though the person being protected almost wet himself with fear.

Today, when I tell this story to my second wife's family, they burst out laughing. The woman who is the mother of my only child is, as she describes herself, Afro-Indio-Colombiana.

I liked the Americans with sugar coating best – which is not to be classified as an evaluation.

It was built on the ruins of houses and also on the emotional ruins of people.

There was also a reorientation in school education – children were shown films of the liberation of concentration camps. Terrible images for adults, traumatizing for children. Who were our parents? Is this perhaps genetically anchored and hereditary? It was impossible to feel pride in one's origins.

We had to be strong – mentally. We had to be honest. We had to be hard-working, punctual, and never complain.

More than other people, we all had to live and document positive qualities.

A diesel emissions scandal at that time would have been the end of German products. "You don't do that!" accompanied me throughout my upbringing.

Germany no longer had any friends in the world. No one felt sympathy – no, it was, if anything, respect for achievement. Very often envy, too.

After the war, Germany had to demonstrate all its virtues in order to earn a place of respect in the newly forming world organization.

The Germans faced up to their responsibility. Not only because the victorious powers hammered this lesson into the survivors with all their might. No, despite everything, this generation had the character to look at things honestly. This is called "self-reflection." Something that would never even occur to many nations with shameful deeds in their history, .

But it is not up to the Germans to demand this. It is merely a statement of fact.

Ultimately, people moved on to other matters.

Unfortunately, the victorious powers did not allow us the freedom to determine our own destiny.

Too many well-trained soldiers, administrative staff, and scientists were needed to face the new dangers. After the war, brothers in arms became enemies. Bitter enemies.

It was clear to many strategists that if a new confrontation were to occur, it would take place on the territory of the defeated victim.

So no neutrality – no self-determination – no, integration into a new battle formation. The old enemy was rebuilt and rearmed, both economically and militarily. We became "brothers in arms."

My brother started school, and a year later it was my turn. For the first time, I saw this huge building – Wilhelminian style, with wide stone steps leading to the individual floors. Each floor had at least five classrooms.

I proudly made my first trip to school with my mother and father that morning, carrying the symbol of my maturity in the form of a school cone.

A very nice tradition. Many years later, I would continue the tradition on another continent for my little daughter.

There were lots of children in the schoolyard, running around and making noise. My parents led me into a decorated room that was already filled with my future classmates and their parents. We were greeted, and I politely said my name. Children at that time were well-behaved, modest, and obedient—at least that was the expectation.

So this was to be my morning home from now on. It was nice that two other boys from our farm were in the same class as me. "Hans" and "Lotte" were the first words I learned to write and read. Back then, we wrote on slate boards with styluses, and the eraser was a small sponge. Colorful school backpacks hadn't been invented yet, so we had leather satchels.

"Hold your stylus correctly, otherwise you'll never learn to write properly" was the saying.

It was a long way to school for little legs, which my "friends from the farm" and I had to walk every day. We walked alone and together. The day began at seven o'clock – a quick wash, breakfast, and getting dressed. At half past seven, we had to set off for school. I often missed an hour of sleep in the morning. Once on the way and then at school, we were busy and active.

I still remember the names of the two class teachers we had. I remember the class teacher from third grade onwards because we boys were very impressed by her femininity. "Young teachers are the subject of schoolboys' fantasies."

There was the time of communion classes, communion, and then confirmation.

Should I have felt a change in myself? Was I now enlightened or better inspired? No, not really. We always prayed before meals and before going to sleep.

The years passed, and the children became boys—an ideal, balanced world in which everything had its order and its way.

There was only one day left until the year 1961 was to begin, and it was our mother's birthday—her thirty-sixth birthday.

It was the day when the family's compartment on the train of life derailed.

Nothing would ever be the same again, or turn out the way we had imagined.

Actually, it had already been looming on the horizon.

It was winter in 1960—Christmas. The last happy Christmas with the family—until today, sixty years later.

Our father hadn't been to work for weeks. He was healthy, yes, physically there was no sign of illness. He couldn't cope with his life anymore, they said later. He was apparently so unwell that he was admitted to the hospital across the street. The observation turned into weeks. It wasn't far from home, and we were able to visit him.

Christmas was just around the corner, and he was given leave while continuing to take his daily medication. For a few days, we had something resembling a normal family life. Christmas passed with fond memories and wonderful gifts.

For us children, this time was pleasant because we had more of our father.

Who, at the age of eleven, ten, or eight, could have imagined what was going on in the soul of a forty-four-year-old war veteran?

I do remember sitting at the table with our father once. He had a photo album in front of him. He talked about the American tank soldiers, and then he opened his album. And there he was – in his uniform. It wasn't the green camouflage uniform with a white star, like the Americans wore. No, it was the symbol of a different allegiance, a different symbol. It was not until many years later that I understood the true value of this symbol and its shameful misuse.

In the living room, there was a picture of our father in uniform and cap, measuring about twenty by thirty centimeters. As a child, I paid more attention to his face, his eyes, and his mouth than to the uniform itself.

In this photo album, there were many pictures of these men in different uniforms.

There were high, snow-capped mountains, large sea bays, and there was a German shepherd dog. He told us about a country high up in northern Europe—the way he described it, it seemed to have left a deep impression and memory on him. He spoke of his Rex—a German shepherd dog that the army leadership had given him for protection and companionship. Sometimes his stories faltered, especially when our questions seemed to throw him off balance. There were pictures that he simply skimmed over. Were they simply no longer recognizable to him? They were pictures of a woman—a friendly, smiling person. She appeared again and again alongside the pictures of his comrades. Then, unexpectedly, he slammed the album shut, left the room, and did not reappear until dinner.

Germany had made a new start, and so had its inhabitants. There was no time for reflection or analysis. There were the Nuremberg war crimes trials, but who gave the individual survivors emotional support? Not only the returning soldiers, but also their families. Young women like my mother, who fought for survival after the war. Many, many years later, she talked about the time of "knoddeln," as she called it. She rode her bike out to the countryside. In her bag were some family jewelry items that she wanted to trade with the farmers for food.

For protection, she had put on old clothes and rubbed smelly grease into her hair. A twenty-two-year-old young lady did not want to be an attractive target for men of any kind. Was she able to survive this time unscathed? We don't know, and she took this secret with her to her grave. But on one of these trips, she met a young man. A man who was not put off by the smelly, dirty beggar. When she revealed her beauty to him, he too began a new life – Christmas 1948.

He probably thought that a gap of almost four years was sufficient. The war ended in 1945, so why four years? What happened in 1944 in this country in the north – in the land of the midnight sun?

Years later, my sister, the little black girl, would analyze this era.

The Wehrmacht records contained information about Sergeant Ludwig Berg, who had been a member of the German Air Force's counterintelligence department since the age of twenty-four. Location: Norway.

There had been an act of sabotage against the German armed forces, and this sergeant was either involved or had been assigned to analyze the incident. The findings of this investigation led to results that were so shocking to him that he decided to slit his wrists. He no longer wanted to live with the knowledge and consequences of this investigation.

His attempt was unsuccessful—he was taken to a hospital—and he was discharged as a surviving but useless soldier.

This realization deeply shook us, now in our thirties. What was the decisive factor in his decision to commit suicide? Many, many years later, when I was already sixty, my father was to tell me.

In late 1960, his parents died, and his heart was heavy—he had probably lost his direction for the future. The depths of the past, with its many wrong turns, had blocked his path in life—he felt lost.

December 30, 1960

A very cold December night was coming to an end. She sought the warmth of her partner, who was still sleeping next to her. Ludi, as she called him. They had been a couple for twelve years. He was the father of their three children, who were still sleeping soundly in the next room.

Ludi slept peacefully and deeply after struggling restlessly almost all night with the events taking place in his subconscious.

She gently covered him and kissed him on the cheek.

The needs of her body drove her out of bed. She slipped into her bathrobe while looking out the window. Although it was still very early, the room was already bright. She wiped the dew that had formed on the windowpane to the side with the sleeve of her bathrobe.

Yes, it had snowed. Everything was white, and the moonlight reflected and illuminated the darkness. Large flakes also lay on the tree outside the window. It was a beautiful, peaceful sight.

As she sat on the toilet, it occurred to her that today was her birthday. Yes, it was December 30—for a few moments, her thoughts drifted to memories of past birthdays. She felt sad, very melancholic and sad.

The apartment had cooled down noticeably during the night. So she went straight to the kitchen to check on the stove.

The kitchen was at a comfortable temperature. She opened the oven door and saw the burnt briquettes. There were still enough embers, and they were smoldering quietly.

And again, she was overcome by a deep melancholy. Was it the date? Her birthday? Was it her husband's restlessness that had also made her sleep very restlessly? Or was it even a premonition of what this day would bring?

Breakfast and lunch together. They wanted to go into town briefly to run some errands.

The two boys had decided to stay at home to play with our electric Märklin train set. Their little eight-year-old daughter wanted to go sledding with her friends.

After accompanying Monika to the hill opposite so she could go sledding with the other children, they went into town together.

It was a silent walk to the city center, about fifteen minutes away. Was it the scarf they had pulled over their mouths to protect themselves from the cold? Or was it simply that everyone was lost in their own thoughts?

While she was talking to the saleswoman and then paying at the cash register, Ludi had turned around and left the store.

She didn't have time to pay. She felt a deep uneasiness, left the store, and went looking for him. He was nowhere to be seen.

"Ludi—where are you?" she asked herself. Where could she find him? Was he on his way back home?

It wasn't just last night that he had been very agitated... no, he had been very strangely withdrawn for days. His father—her father-in-law—had died a few days ago. Was that what had thrown him off track?

Was it the death he had encountered so often in war and which had caught up with him again through this event?

With quick steps and wide eyes, she wandered through the city center. He had to be somewhere. Intuitively, she headed toward home. The train station came to mind. She reached the station and went to the ticket hall. Nothing. She walked to the train tracks... up and down.

There he stood, staring ahead. He was startled when she spoke to him.

What was going through his mind? Where had he been?

She asked him where he was going. He just looked at her blankly. What question? "Home," he said. "Home? Where?"

Home, where he was born.

"That home no longer exists. Your parents are both dead. You have a home with me and our three children. Ludi... Come to your senses. COME TO YOUR SENSES."

She fought for him—to bring him back from this other reality.

She grabbed his arm, and together they left the platform, the station, and made their way home.

What was going through his mind? How could she keep him grounded in reality?

Her heart was tight, tense, and deeply concerned.

The people of that time had experienced a lot. The emergence of a new national pride, the war, the collapse, the occupation, the struggle for survival, loss, and death.

They had sought a new beginning—but the images and feelings of the time only a few years ago were still vivid. She knew about the events that had dominated him during the war years in Norway—surely she also knew about his decision to take his own life. At that time, he had been saved from bleeding to death after slitting his wrists. But all this was so many years ago. Hadn't they already discussed this topic at length? Hadn't he said YES to a new beginning—a new relationship and family?

This seemingly perfect world was about to come to an abrupt end. The shadows of the past grew longer, much like the nights, which grew darker and darker.

We boys received some more gifts for our electric train set. Since Christmas Eve, it had been set up on a very large chipboard panel, and we played from early in the morning until late at night. My sister preferred to enjoy the snow and go sledding.

That's how it was on the day my mother went into town with our father to do some shopping. It was her thirty-sixth birthday when our world was shaken. Not a nice gift.

It was almost dark when they rang the doorbell. We pressed the door opener and let them in.

My mother took my sister's sled to the basement and entered the apartment.

My brother and I had been playing collision games over and over again. Two trains traveling at full speed toward each other until they derailed.

And so it came to a "total derailment." Everything that had previously been running on its designated tracks was thrown off course.

While she was taking the sled to the basement, my father had not, as she thought, gone into the apartment. She only noticed this after a while and asked us children where our father was. Her voice was very serious, and I think she sensed the special moment. He had been in the house just a moment ago. Hadn't he gone up to the apartment?

There was no time for questions—the three of us children didn't understand anything. My mother quickly slipped back into her warm winter coat. She ran right, left, wandered from here to there, calling her husband's name. It started to snow, it was cold... A neighbor who came home at that moment told her that he had seen my father a few minutes ago. He had greeted him, but he had just hurried past him with long strides, ignoring the greeting.

And now my mother ran in the direction described by the neighbor, shouting his name into the increasingly stormy snowy night.

It was now very dark. The gas lanterns illuminated only a limited area. "Ludi... Ludi... Where are you?" she cried in desperation. The darkness had swallowed him up. No answer. The park was deserted – no answer – no one to witness her struggle. It began to snow... And so the last traces were also erased.

She reached the train station, hoping to find him there.

No sign of him. It was already very late and there were hardly any people around. She went to the men's room. Yes, she searched everywhere.

He had to be somewhere. "Ludi... come back... Come... Come back..."

There was no answer. Ludi had left her and her children on her thirty-sixth birthday.

Did he know what he was doing?

There was no answer—the night had swallowed him up—it became very, very quiet that night and many, many nights and months after that.

That same night, a missing person report was filed with the police. Unfortunately, it was not taken very seriously. With New Year's Eve approaching, it was almost ignored. The fact that he was a patient on medication and suffering from depression was irrelevant.

No more answers.

There was the time before December 30, 1960 – there was December 30, 1960 – and there was the time after December 30, 1960.

One hundred days – questions and no answers.

That night, we didn't really understand what had happened. Had he just not come home for one night, as the police said? Would he come back?

With each passing day and night, the certainty grew that it might be final.

But there was still great hope. Hadn't we learned since childhood to appeal to our guardian angels?

Two on the right, two on the left—two at the foot and two at the head of the bed—and so we fell asleep.

This time, however, things were different – guardian angels alone could certainly not help much.

So the prayers went directly to the highest authority – to God himself. At first they were pleading, imploring, but then the tone changed to demands and even direct accusations of inaction. Why didn't God want to bring my father back to me? Where – why and how come?

This last day of the old year and the days and nights that followed were marked by hope and despair. A sadness so deep that it became part of my soul.

There are many things that children do not understand. However, one thing had become reality: my zest for life and energy had diminished. This had an extreme effect on my school performance and also on my interpersonal relationships. I withdrew; no one should know how I felt inside. We all suffered – my siblings tried to support each other.

Spring had already begun and we could play soccer outside again. I came home from school, threw my backpack in the corner, and then went to the bathroom. Afterwards, I opened the kitchen door and saw my grandparents sitting at the table with my mother. Although they came to visit from time to time, this was very unusual, and the whole scene was very strange. Mom took me in her arms and hugged me—tighter than usual? Or did I feel it differently this time? I greeted them and told my mother to hurry so I wouldn't be late for sports.

She just said, "You don't need to go to school today." I didn't understand why. They asked me to sit down, and my mother hugged me.

"They found Dad," she said. For a moment, I felt great joy in my heart and didn't understand why all the faces around me looked so endlessly empty and sad.

From my mother's serious expression and tears, I realized that my prayers had not been answered.

The time for prayer had come to an end.

Death—a reality that can no longer be discussed. A finality. The family's train compartment was suddenly empty, so infinitely empty. He had gotten off.

The dark night had taken him, and it was not until months later that Father Rhine would release him again. A damp night had taken him, and the floods of the Rhine had released him again.

A body recovered from the water, buried due to a lack of identification papers and distinguishing features – was this my father? Our father?

Was it planned?

Did it just happen, and he seized the opportunity?

By chance, a well-known priest heard about the unidentified body. In the end, he was the only person asked to identify it.