“Ulrich pressed his family to his heart for as long as he dared. As he pulled away, he forced his best smile before donning his helmet to shroud his tears and his contorted face. As horse and rider turned the corner of the street Ulrich turned back for one last look and a wave.”

It was early on the morning of October 11, 1531. The first rays of the morning sun filtered through dew-laden pine trees, and between the stone and wood buildings surrounding the city square called “charity.” Typically, the square would have come to life gradually, the way a person likes to wake up when he has no plans for the day. But on this early morning the usually quiets streets of Zurich Switzerland teemed with frantic activity. An angry and hungry army of several thousand Roman Catholics—half starved by an unfortunate Protestant embargo—had crossed into the Protestant state of Zurich, Switzerland two days earlier.

Now, men, horses, and cannon, crisscrossed the damp cobblestones. The crisp air resonated with the mingled sounds of shuffling leather, jangling steel, whinnying horses, and barking dogs. The shuffling sound came from thousands of boots marching through the narrow, winding streets. The boots were worn by men donning the best military equipment they could muster on short notice—thus the jangling steel. Most of the bearded, rough-looking men carried pikes—sturdy poles easily three times as tall as the men fitted with an iron spearhead. Though they hoped not to need them, the pikemen also wore either halberds—a cross between a staff and an axe at least as tall as the men who carried them—or longswords, both of which would be used in close combat.

The previous night, alarm bells had pealed from every tower in the Zurich state beginning at the center of the city with the same name. A volunteer army began to assemble to halt the advancing enemy. At full day light the city streets resembled what happens moments after a curious boy disrupts an enormous ant hill. Some of the citizen-soldiers raced to the city arms-locker to find weapons. Others, increasingly clustering into small groups, returned with what weapons they could find. Their faces showed warrior determination, even if their hearts were filled with fear of the unknown. Most of the activity led to various cobblestone squares where small groups formed into larger ones. Between the bands of men roamed horses, their hooves clattering at the prodding of their riders. Cannon, borne on iron-clad wheels bounced rhythmically across the stone streets.

Wives and children embraced their husbands and fathers amidst tears and last goodbyes. Women held their children in their doorways; more courageous children ventured into the streets. Army captains, only recently given marching orders, desperately lobbed commands into the mounting confusion.

“Men, we must march!” As the husky shout left the mouth of the company commander—also the town butcher—he turned on his heels toward the rising sun and marched down the steep alley that led to the narrow northern tip of Lake Zurich.

As if on cue, the solid wooden door of the stone house that still cast a shrinking shadow on the remaining soldiers swung open. Three children tumbled down the steps and sped toward the curly-red-haired man who was dismounting his horse to meet their embrace.

“Papa! Don’t go, Papa!” Seven year old Regula struggled to catch her breath after blurting out the words between violent sobs. William and young Ulrich, two and four years younger than their sister, nearly knocked her over as they flew to clasp their father’s legs.

The soldier, a minister by calling, removed his helmet to look into his children’s faces one last time. For nearly the first time since meeting each of his children on the days of their birth, the preacher was lost for words. As he looked up to gather his thoughts, and be relieved of the unbearable pain etched in his children’s faces, the door of his house opened a few more inches. His “two Annas” wrapped in a cream-colored shawl seemed to glide toward him without touching the ground. His baby, only a year old, squirmed in her mother’s arms, her face set between a smile and a scream. His wife wore a similar expression.

“Goodbye, Ulrich…” she started, then faltered. She bit her quivering lip. Her eyes squeezed shut, repelled by the painful scene.

Ulrich scooped up Regula and nearly dragged his sons on his legs to cover the last few paces that separated himself from his bride of only seven years. For a second the confusing scene that had been swirling around the family seemed to freeze as they locked their heaving bodies.

Everyone waited for the father to speak.

“The hour has come that separates us. Let it be. It is God’s will.” He tightened his arms as emotion tightened his throat.

The words of her pastor and spiritual friend strengthened Anna. “We shall all see each other again if it is God’s will.” Thinking of the children, she added, “And what will you bring back when you come?”

“Blessing after dark night,” he replied.

Ulrich pressed his family to his heart for as long as he dared. As he pulled away, he forced his best smile before donning his helmet to shroud his tears and his contorted face. As horse and rider turned the corner of the street Ulrich turned back for one last look and a wave.

Regula broke free of her mother’s arms. Love and fear began forming a word on her wiggling lips. The father turned his face away just before her shrill voice pierced the noise of the crowd. “PAPA!”

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