Max Hoffmann turned five in 1865 when he contracted cholera. A doctor was called to a farm near a small town in Wisconsin, but the doctor could not reassure the parents: in his opinion, there was no hope of recovery.
The illness lasted only three days. Little Max died and was buried in the village cemetery.
The next night, my mother had a terrible dream. She dreamed that Max turned over in a coffin and seemed to be trying to get out of there. She saw him fold the pens and place them under his right cheek. The mother woke up with a heartbreaking cry. She begged her husband to dig out the coffin with the child, he refused.
Mr. Hoffman felt that her sleep was the result of a nervous shock and that removing the body from the grave would only increase her suffering. But the next night the dream was repeated, and this time the agitated mother could not be persuaded. Hoffmann sent his eldest son for a neighbor and a lantern, as their own lantern was broken.
In the second hour of the night, the men began to exhume. They worked by the light of a lantern hanging from a nearby tree. When they finally dug down to the coffin and opened it, they saw that Max was lying on his right side, as his mother had dreamed, with folded arms under his right cheek.
The child showed no signs of life, but the father took the little body out of the coffin and rode on horseback to the doctor. With great disbelief, the doctor set to work, trying to revive the child, whom he had pronounced dead two days ago.
More than an hour later, his efforts were rewarded: the child's eyelid twitched. They used brandy, put bags of heated salt under the body and hands. Little by little, there were signs of improvement.
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In a week, Max fully recovered from his fantastic adventure. He lived to be 80 and died in Clinton, Iowa. Among the most memorable things for him were two small metal handles from the coffin from which he was saved thanks to his mother's sleep.