Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 7654 Plough Quarterly • Winter 2015 Herr Baron is still occupied by the dead and by himself. You must put aside all that belongs to yourself. A parson named Wittkopp, who has also lost wife and child to the war, speaks to Amadeus of the privilege of caring for the shattered young woman: You are the only one . . . on whom such an obli- gation could be laid. . . . You must not do it out of generosity. You must realize how much you owe to the poor girl for the opportunity to perfect yourself. Without her it might have been impossible for you. Tidings closes with an otherworldly peace, as Amadeus allows himself to imagine a world in which the innocent spirit of little children might thrive once more: All the anguish of the dark hours behind the barbed wire . . . where he had been at the gates of hell; where not only suffering, horror and death had revealed themselves, but what was more – where man had revealed himself. He who had overcome this . . . who had not lost the image of man and the image of God with it forever – he could now well stand still, when the girl’s cheek rested on his shoulder . . . He could slowly enlarge the small circle of life, without an effort because it was his lot – his lot that the children from the castle now came more and more frequently to his hut, and that he could bring a little gladness into their needy lives. . . . All the wonderful things, little things which had lit up the world of his own childhood, and which had been forgotten in a time when only searchlights and great conflagrations had lit up the dark scene, and for which no one outside the shepherd’s hut had time. . . . The novel’s pages are imbued with poetic beauty and intensity, exploring the mystical work of God in the heart and soul in the aftermath of unimaginable suffering. It is the condensed wisdom of Wiechert’s own personal anguish and hard-won faith, like gold refined in the fire. reparation by tending to the displaced persons who occupy the family castle. The second looks for healing in the land itself, by working the soil and allowing nature to cleanse his soul. Scarred by the atrocities of the war, all the characters – and the natural world they inhabit – grow toward restoration. Only Amadeus, despite the compassionate ministra- tions of his brothers, seems unable even to make an attempt at finding peace. Then peace pursues him in the form of a young woman who – stripped of conscience by the brutal philosophies that she was raised with and pregnant with the child of a fugitive Nazi official – attempts to kill him. After the attempt she loses her mind, and Amadeus finds himself compelled, by a remaining spark of decency, to protect her as she awaits the birth of her child. Amadeus is led slowly toward love and sacrifice, and toward the God who was born as a helpless child in a manger, consoled and challenged by a cast of fellow sufferers. Jakob, an old Jewish salesman whose family perished in the fires of the Holocaust, counsels Amadeus: If an old man is allowed to speak . . . he would kindly beg the gentleman to let the Lord our God live in his face. . . . The Holy One, blessed be He . . . is wandering and looks for a place where He can rest. He looks into the faces of men and goes past. The face of Herr Baron is not yet a place where He can rest. The face of John Singer Sargent, Blue Gentians From WikiArt (public domain)