Our family was the envy of the neighborhood in which we lived in Freiburg. My father had bought an additional piece of property behind our home. We not only had the usual formal garden around the house, but on a lower level a backyard which was our world.

Two flights of stone steps led down to a big lawn with many fruit trees and enough space in the middle for a swing. The most prominent space belonged to an old cherry tree, which was easy to climb, and sitting, hidden by the leaves, we could let the world go by. The far back end was planted with lilac bushes, a perfect place for my friends and me to set up our housekeeping. We ignored the vegetable garden, but the strawberry and raspberry bushes offered welcome snacks in summer.

A little to the side on a shady patch lay another of my favorite spots. The mulberry tree with its low branches offered good seating. There I dreamed of a playhouse all my own with flower boxes and painted shutters outside and a corner bench and table inside. There would be room for a doll bed and enough floor space for a mattress, so my best friend could spend the night with me.

When I was about five years old, my hand showed an ugly wart.

"That will be easy to remove," my father said. "Come with me."

I clutched my hand, expecting the worst. My father was a surgeon, and I knew he would cut the wart off with a knife. But he went with me to the backyard to the water basin which was half buried in the ground. It was covered with planks and he turned one of them over. A big colony of snails had settled there to enjoy the coolest spot on a hot summer day. My father carefully selected a good fat specimen.

"We have to tell this snail what to do," he said, "and since we don't know if it is a male or female, we have to address it with both titles." And he recited with a solemn voice, "Mr. or Mrs. Snail, be on your guard, we beg you erase this ugly wart."

While I shuddered, he put the snail on my hand and it crawled slowly over the wart, leaving a slimy trail. I wanted to shake it off and run away, but he held my fingers tightly. Putting it carefully back on the ground and replacing the plank, he added, "Go in the house and tell your mother not to wash your hand for exactly 30 minutes."

I had great faith in my father and there was no question that this cure would be successful.

So it was. The wart fell off, and I never had another on.