The White Ribbon

By the end of The White Ribbon, Germany is about to be plunged into the horror of World War I (to be followed a generation later by the unimaginable cruelties of World Word II) The villagers gather in their church, with the first volunteers proudly sitting in the front row. As the children's choir begins to sing, the image very slowly fades to black. History is about to devour a way of life and it is, appallingly, the logical conclusion to everything we've been watching - cruelty (both psychological and physical), hypocrisy, vengeance, suicide.
The adult males are patriarchal monsters, regardless of class. They don't hesitate to hit or otherwise punish their children. The women have some indications of tenderness but are cowed and unable to effectively protest. As one character says, this is a place dominated by "malice, envy, apathy and brutality". Even worse, those in positions of power refuse to accept the only possible answer to the mystery of who is terrorising the village. The pastor, of all people, rejects what is right under his nose, present within the walls of his own house. The only solution appears to be to leave, as the Baroness intends, and as the schoolteacher and his bride will do after the war.
It's never explained, and the narrator admits some of what he relates is hearsay, but the gathering of children quickly becomes a sinister image. They don't play; they lurk outside doors and windows; they observe silently and sullenly. Hindsight is impossible to ignore. These blonde children bring to mind pictures of the Hitler Youth (perhaps their own children 20 years later), though a couple of the youngest still retain their innocence - the pastor's son offering his rescued bird to replace the one killed by his sister. Erna meanwhile tearfully confesses to "dreams" that come true, which may be an attempt to prevent terrible things happening. The acts directed against adults are more easily understood than those inflicted upon other children. A boy opens a window in an attempt to kill his new-born brother. The Baron's son Sigi and later poor, handicapped Karli are both savagely beaten. Is it because of class? Prejudice? It's all the more disturbing because we don't know.
All of this would be unbearably gruelling if it wasn't for the sweet courtship between the narrator and Eva, the nanny. Perhaps it's because they are both outsiders but both seem free from the oppression weighing down the other villagers, and there's a gently comic scene with Eva's family when the schoolteacher goes to ask for her hand in marriage. It's a little spark of hope amid the gathering darkness, yet even these two will ultimately be caught up in their country's catastrophes.