I was forbidden to go down there, and had no desire to do so, since, in the hubbub of a market day when my father had taken me, I was almost crushed between the wheels of a car.

But it was very beautiful when, from above and well above the filth and the tumult, the eye was immersed in that world of ants, which seemed so tiny, we could, as the same God, embrace at a glance, but increasingly grew to gigantic proportions and disturbing take, as it was to penetrate.

By a singular rarity, I have kept from that time more than a vague memory of people whose life has been more closely associated with the mine, no doubt because the prints have been cleared following the first. My father was a small, sturdy and stout, bearded, short black hair, wearing high boots shining, clothed in a tunic of coarse cloth green. I was grinning at me, gave me a friendly pat on the neck, arms or pinched me, and then disappeared. He was always busy, the poor father, while he lived, did not see him stand for a moment.

Since that time Mom was very stout, ate continuously jams and was devoted to the siesta. But that did not prevent him being in active occupation overnight, although reluctantly dragged from one side to another and did not like who walked behind her and overwhelmed her with questions.

Among the family was, at that time, Robert’s cousin, whom our family of Prussia had sent for him to learn with my dad to run a farm. He was a tall boy with broad shoulders and strong neck, with a beard that I liked to pull when I got on his knees to get into the head on A, B, C, painstakingly pieces of licorice. I’ve always been her good friend, but because he has not love me more than the other disciples, for the face I had then disappeared in the fog as any other.