On September fourth, 1942, while Ingeborg was imprisoned, her mother died. The news reached Ingeborg and she wrote this memorial in a letter to a friend:
"Last time I was at home, mum dreamt of her death. She only told me. She added: "I'm not afraid of death, you see - not of the grave, I just don't like 'the valley of deepest darkness'. I don't like the chapel of rest." She was whispering, shy, to prevent anyone but me from hearing.
"You don't have to go to the chapel of rest," I said. "I will be with you all the time until it's all over. I will lit many candles and hold your hand."
"As if..," she said, but I saw it cheered her up.
But now, she's in the chapel after all. Since I heard the news I've been at her side in my thoughts day and night.
When thinking of how my mum coped with hard times, I imagine her as trying to get through a bush of wild roses. She is crawling and pushing and tearing her skin until she bleeds. But her head is above the bush and her face is bright and happy while she is pointing at the roses:
"Did you ever see such beautiful roses?"
She forgot the pain. Didn't notice she was bleeding. Only the roses."