The Haigerloch Project

Sig and Dirk turned to the farmhouse. As they started for the door, it opened. An elderly woman, gray hair gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head, stood in the doorway. She held her work-scarred hands in front of her, folded across a soiled apron. She watched them approach.

“Frau Schrader?” Sig asked politely.

She eyed him. Then Dirk.

“Ja,” she said guardedly.

Sig shrugged out of the rucksack and placed it on the ground at his feet. “Gott sei dank!” he said fervently. “Thank God! It has been hard walking to get here, Frau Schrader.”

The woman's noncommittal mien did not change.

“And why are you here?” she asked.

“Ah — that is another story,” Sig said. He took a deep breath and launched into his explanation. “We come from the farmer Ludwig Brause, Frau Schrader. From Biberach. And a pretty distance that is. Ludwig would have come himself, but some important matters came up and prevented his leaving the farm. And so, he sent us.” He took a breath and went on. “We had a — a little mishap with our truck.” He pointed to Dirk's foot. “My friend hurt his foot. And we had to leave the truck to be repaired in Alpirsbach. We walked from there. We have come for the tractor.”

“Ach, ja,” the woman exclaimed. “The tractor.” She looked. at Dirk's foot. “You should not walk on this foot,” she admonished. “It will make it worse.”

“It is good now,” Dirk said. “We can ride the tractor back to the truck. It will be no trouble.”

The woman looked dubious.

“Perhaps so,” she allowed. “If the tractor will run. And if there is gasoline for it…”

Sig and Dirk exchanged glances.

“When was it last used?” Sig asked quickly.

The woman shrugged. “Not for some weeks now. My husband — God rest his soul! — was ill. And Adam, the Polish boy, he is a good boy, but he does not know how to drive the tractor.”

“We will look at this tractor,” Sig said. “Where is it kept?”

“No, no, no,” the woman said emphatically. “I cannot let you do that.” She looked down at Dirk's foot. “When I have done what can be done for this bad foot, then I will show you the tractor.”

“Thank you, Frau Schrader,” Dirk said quickly, “that is not necessary.”

“It is necessary,” the woman said sternly. “I have had a husband. A good man I have raised two sons. I know what is necessary.” She turned and started into the Bauernstube.

Dirk glanced at Sig. He shrugged. They followed the woman into the house.

Frau Schrader pointed to a bench. “You sit there,” she instructed Dirk. “Take off your boot and your sock and roll up your trouser leg.” There was no doubt who was in charge. “And be sure you sit in comfort. You will sit there for one hour.”

Obediently Dirk began to carry out the woman's orders.

She brought over a large tub and placed it at his feet.

“Put your bad foot in it,” she said. She looked at the swollen ankle marked with puffy rings from the makeshift bandages. She touched it gently. “It is bad,” she said. “But I have seen them worse. It will be better. You wait now.”

For a moment she left the room. When she returned she carried a large pail. From it she poured a heavy white liquid over Dirk's foot.

“Buttermilk,” she said. “Cold buttermilk. It will draw out the swelling. It will take away the hurt. My mother and her mother before her did this thing for their men.” She looked at Dirk. “You sit Quietly,” she said firmly. “And I will get the tractor papers for Herr Brause and give them to your friend.” She looked from one to the other. “You did bring the thousand marks, did you not?”

“We did, Frau Schrader,” Sig said. “All is in order.”

* * *

One hour later Dirk lifted his foot from the tub of buttermilk. He stared at it. The skin was wrinkled, but the puffy rings were gone. The swelling had almost disappeared. Gingerly he placed the wet foot on the floor and put his weight on it. It was tender — but the pain was gone. He looked at Frau Schrader, who was observing him critically.

“It is fine,” he said “It is really prima!”

“Naturally,” the woman said.

Dirk wriggled his foot. “It feels much better,” he said. He couldn't quite keep his surprise from his voice. “I am grateful.” He glanced at the buttermilk in the tub. “But it is a shame about all the good buttermilk,” he added.

“It will not be wasted,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “The Polish boy likes buttermilk.”

Sig looked at her, startled. “But—”

Frau Schrader turned to him. “What is not known to him will not hurt him,” she said firmly. “And it is too good for the pigs.”

The social order of the Third Reich, Sig thought wryly. On top the Germans, on the bottom the pigs — and somewhere in between the rest of the world.

Frau Schrader turned back to Dirk. “We will put a nice bandage around your ankle — and you will not walk much on it for a day, is that understood?” she asked sternly.

“Yes, Frau Schrader.”

“Very well. As soon as you are ready, we will go and look at the tractor….”

* * *