[NARRATOR/THE DARK COMPANY:]
Where the trees almost die in the ice, winter has unleashed all its splendor even in the dark night. Here the snow glitters like white silver and the air freezes with cold. All you see is wood and white and ice. Two desolate farms with livestock and sheds seem to turn out to be untouched souls. And yet there is still life in here, in fact the brood from the den of sin is still sitting on every chair.
The dark fellow stomps forward lasciviously and holds his fork pointed far forward. “Anatol, go ahead, go!” His servant, he pulls and pulls the cross up to the first shed. And while the night is still settling in here in silence, the dark fellow has long since ordered him to quickly unload the sleigh and dig a separate hole for each cross. âStand on the cross and set yourself free. Now I see murder after murder. I have the courage, I have the power, soon sweet blood will run through the snow and night.â
What suspicion is behind this farm? What deep abyss has opened up here over just years? Are they the fruits of a strictly forbidden seed? Here the children always looked different; the splendor of winter was certainly their greatest horror. For the dark fellow, winter is more than a muse. The splendor of winter stirs up malice, intoxication and desire in spurts. The waves of almost frozen, icy cold streams propel his limbs. In the frost of the forest he feels all the power of cold, storm and snow, of murder, slaughter, blood and woe. Winter wraps itself around mountains and forests, even streams and lakes, in a big, white sea. He wipes out the leaves, makes the meadows heavy and deletes the clover. It is precisely this beauty that the dark fellow paints people with a red brush. For him it is brazen anarchy, the sound and poetry of the forest.

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