Danger at Dead Man's Pass

by M. G. Leonard

‘No.’ Ozan chuckled. ‘He told us to try and make coming to this funeral sound exciting. Hilda loves ghost stories. He told her the old house was haunted by all the ghosts of the cursed sons who’d died.’ He snorted.

  ‘You didn’t want to come?’

  Ozan looked wryly at him. ‘Who wants to go to the funeral of a relative they hardly know when it’s the holidays?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Mama is away working in Istanbul, so for Papa to come he had to persuade us to agree. He’s desperate to see the library.’

  ‘Is it a good one?’

  ‘The Kratzenstein family can be traced back to the Middle Ages, so the library is full of rare old books, but because it is a private house no one can read them.’

  ‘Your dad came to see the rare books?’

  ‘He’s crazy about this old dead writer called Goethe. He thinks Goethe may have stayed at Schloss Kratzenstein when he was writing Faust. That’s why he wants to see the library.’

  ‘Faust! My unc— my dad bought that book in Paris.’ Hal cursed inwardly at his clumsy speech.

  ‘It’s boring.’ Ozan pulled a face. ‘But it does have witches in it. They all come to the Brocken mountain to have a big evil party with the devil.’

  Hal stared out at the shadowy Harz mountains as they crept closer. He noticed the largest one had a flat bald peak, though its side was dark with evergreen trees, and guessed it was the Brocken. He strained his eyes, and thought he could see, at the summit, a blinking light. ‘Can you see a red light, up there, on the top of that mountain?’

  ‘That’s the old Soviet listening post. The Russians used it during the Cold War to broadcast secret messages.’

  Hal stared at the light, transfixed; its flashing was hypnotic. ‘Have you met Arnold Kratzenstein?’

  ‘No, but Opa likes him. He knew him before he met Oma. I think it was Arnold who introduced them.’

  ‘They are good friends?’

  ‘It was Arnold who asked Opa to come when Alexander died.’

  Suppressing his instinct to draw was creating a traffic jam of thoughts and questions in Hal’s head, and he wished he could talk to Uncle Nat about everything that was going on. Why had no one mentioned Alexander Kratzenstein’s terrified appearance yet? Perhaps that’s what the adults had been talking about when he and Ozan had entered their carriage. Were they keeping it a secret so as not to horrify the children?

  The train slowed right down as it approached Wernigerode and stopped at a red signal. Two giant black-and-red steam engines were sitting in a parallel siding, smoke bubbling from their chimneys and Hal gawped, his heart lifting at the sight of the beautiful locomotives.

  ‘That’s the Brockenbahn,’ Ozan said. ‘The steam railway that goes through the mountains. You really like trains, don’t you?’

  ‘Yup.’ Hal smiled. ‘Must be my Kratzenstein DNA.’

  ‘Then be careful the curse doesn’t get you!’ Ozan said in a ghostly voice, and they laughed.

  ‘Shall we take Herman and Hilda a hot chocolate?’ Hal suggested.

  ‘Good idea.’ Ozan jumped up, keen to use the drinks machine again. ‘We’d better be quick. We’ll be there soon.’

  It was a mission to carry the hot drinks across the outdoor verandas, but the train was stationary and the grateful smiles from Herman and Hilda made up for the effort.

  ‘Herman is annoyingly good at chess,’ Hilda said, sipping her chocolate. ‘This is our third game. He’s beaten me twice.’

  Herman blushed with pleasure.

  The signal changed and the train rolled forward. Hal was delighted to see cobbled streets and wonky old houses out of the window. Travelling through Wernigerode was like going back in time. The buildings were colourful – mustard, coral and yellow – with criss-cross beams and short wooden doors. They looked like fairytale buildings. He pictured Hansel and Gretel coming out of one, scattering breadcrumbs behind them, on their way to the woods, then gave an involuntary shiver as he remembered that they had met a witch in the woods who’d tried to eat them.

  Beyond the town was a river, banked by boulders, then came bigger houses, with large gardens. The overhead power cables were gone, and Hal realized the locomotive must have switched to diesel power at the red signal.

  ‘There it is.’ Herman pointed up the mountain at a building Hal would have called a castle. ‘Schloss Kratzenstein.’

  As the train climbed, winding through the foothills of the Brocken, the dense clouds hiding the sky seemed to grow heavier and sink lower. The front of the forbidding manor was a crenellated stone wall with arched windows. In the middle protruded a stubby square porch. Hal guessed this was the main entrance. To the right, a building like the town houses, with criss-cross beams, sprouted forward, as if added as an afterthought. Behind this stern aspect was an enormous tower, a turret on each of its four corners, each with two vertical windows, like vacant black eyes, topped by a conical roof. The closer they got, the more sinister the place seemed.

  The rails crossed the drive, taking the train out and round the right side of the building, where there was a glasshouse extension. Then he spotted the archway and a sign: Kratzenstein Halt.

  ‘Where do we stop?’ Hal asked.

  ‘Inside,’ replied Herman as the train went into a tunnel through the walls of the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A MATTER OF WIFE AND DEATH

  Through the carriage window Hal saw a cobbled courtyard with a short platform protruding from the back of the house. Waiting on it was an old man whose silver hair stuck out like a mad scientist’s. Old Arnold Kratzenstein was sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket over his legs. Standing behind the chair, a candyfloss-pink cardigan over her white blouse, was his nurse, Connie, whose crop of blonde hair was neatly pinned up. Beside them, dressed in a black suit jacket and skirt, stood a hard-faced woman with a monobrow. Her frog-like eyes bulged as she scanned the train with pursed lips.

  The train stopped, and Arnie jumped down from the loco, bounding over to the woman in black. Her arms shot out and she hugged him, confirming Hal’s guess that this was Bertha, Alexander’s first wife. He saw Arnie whisper something to his mother and she stiffened.

  ‘You have a station in your house?’ Ozan marvelled.

  ‘This is not my house,’ Herman muttered.

  Uncle Nat and Clara entered the compartment.

  ‘Everyone OK?’ Uncle Nat asked. ‘Ready to go?’

  Clara put her arm protectively round Herman’s shoulders and they got off the train. Old Arnold kissed Clara’s hand, and then pulled a euro coin from behind Herman’s ear, handing it to him with a smile. Uncle Nat stepped forward and, speaking in German, shook Arnold’s hand, offering his condolences and introducing himself and Hal as Nat and Harrison Strom.

  Freya was the last to step down from the train, and her appearance shocked the mischief out of old Arnold’s eyes. Clutching Belladonna’s cat basket and Rada’s hand, she smiled nervously. ‘Hallo, Papa.’

  Arnold opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He studied his daughter’s face.

  Tactfully the baron suggested to Bertha that they all go inside and, pivoting on her heel, Bertha barked, ‘Folgt mir!’

  As they traipsed into the house after Bertha, Hal noticed Connie looking perplexed. She had stepped back from the wheelchair and was staring at Uncle Nat, then she looked at Freya. She didn’t know whether to stay with Arnold or follow them into the house.

  The salon was a large sage-green room with heavy gold curtains, a high ceiling and a roaring fire in a giant stone hearth. Its walls were decorated with a display of crossbows and criss-crossed spears. Bertha turned, pushing open a pair of double doors framed by an impressively tusked wild boar – stuffed and mounted on a wooden pedestal – on one side, and a suit of armour on the other.

  The table in the centre of the panelled dining room was big enough for a Viking banquet. Bertha moved the place settings and added chairs to accommodate the two unexpected guests.


  Freya wheeled her father to the head of the table and sat beside him. Bending down, she released Belladonna from her basket and lifted her on to her lap. Bertha had moved Clara and Herman away from the head of the table and Hal could tell from Clara’s expression that she was not impressed. When he got to the chair in front of the Harrison Strom place card, he noticed miniature railway tracks running in a loop round the table. He looked about, wondering where the trains were.

  ‘Before we eat . . .’ Arnold said as everyone settled into their seats, ‘I would like to thank you all for making the journey to be here.’ He looked around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes. ‘This is a tragic time for our family –’ he took Freya’s and Bertha’s hands – ‘but we have each other and together we will honour Alexander’s life.’

  Bertha frowned, biting her lip as she tried to control her emotions, then she barked out a command, in German, making Hal jump. A timid woman hurried in, carrying plates that each held a knuckle of pork, with a knife stabbed into it, and a potato-sized dumpling sitting in the meat juices, accompanied by shredded cabbage.

  ‘Schweinshaxe is my favourite.’ Uncle Nat smiled at Bertha as the plates were set down. ‘This looks delicious.’

  ‘The potato dumpling is a family recipe,’ Bertha said with pride.

  A high-pitched toot-toot! sounded, and a model train made its entrance through a hole in the wall above the door. It circumnavigated the room on a set of rails built on the architrave, carrying in its trucks a selection of mustards, seasonings and sauces; a dish of butter sat in a hopper at the back. The diners looked up, following its journey to a junction, where it paused as the section of the track on which it sat was lowered down on wires, slotting into a groove in the table.

  ‘That is cool,’ Ozan murmured.

  The train tooted, and moved off slowly, over a set of points, on to the loop of track round the table.

  ‘Please, help yourself,’ Arnold said, delighted by the astonishment on his guests’ faces.

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ Freya said affectionately. ‘You haven’t changed.’

  Pulling out the knife, Hal tucked in. The meat was tender, the crackling salty and crunchy.

  Like a sponge, the dumpling soaked up the juices, and the sauerkraut, flavoured with salt, vinegar and rye seeds, went with it well. He was so hungry that he didn’t notice an argument start at the other end of the table.

  Clara and Bertha were speaking to each other in stiff, hushed German and, although he didn’t understand what they were saying, their loathing for one another was obvious. Other conversations petered out as everyone around the table became aware of the exchange.

  Bertha switched to English. ‘People from the city are so difficult to please,’ she said pointedly. Her left nostril twitched as if she were suppressing a sneer.

  ‘But we always stay in Alexander’s rooms,’ Clara replied, looking distressed. ‘I am his wife . . .’

  ‘Connie is with us now.’ Without taking her eyes from Clara, Bertha tipped her head towards Connie, who was sitting at the foot of the table, beside Aksel. ‘She has Manfred’s old room,’ Bertha continued, ‘because she must be close to Arnold. He needs her. My Arnie’s bedroom is Freya’s old room.’ She smiled sourly at Freya. ‘If Freya is to be near her father, she must stay in Alexander’s rooms.’

  ‘Oh!’ Freya looked distressed. ‘Rada and I don’t mind where we stay. We know we weren’t expected.’

  ‘Schatz,’ Arnold said tenderly, putting his liver-spotted hand on Freya’s. ‘It’s been twenty years. You will stay in the family rooms.’

  ‘I too was Alexander’s wife,’ Bertha said. ‘My rooms are in the servants’ quarters. The blue room is our finest guest room.’ She paused, her expression triumphant. ‘Is it not good enough for you?’

  ‘It’s on the other side of the house.’ Clara looked at Bertha with stone-cold hatred. ‘Herman and I will be away from the family. It was him I was concerned about.’

  ‘You must not worry about Herman,’ Bertha replied. ‘All the children will stay together in the tower.’

  ‘Nein,’ Clara said through gritted teeth. ‘Herman stays with me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Herman rather be with his cousins?’ There was a mean glint in Bertha’s eyes. ‘Playing will be a healthy distraction from . . . tragic events. Don’t you think?’

  Clara frowned and turned to Herman. ‘Would you rather sleep in the tower with your cousins?’

  Herman glanced nervously at Hal and said in a barely audible whisper, ‘It would be nice to be with my cousins.’

  Clara looked crestfallen, but nodded.

  ‘It is not an easy task to accommodate so many people, so . . . suddenly.’ Bertha’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, dabbing her napkin to her eyes. ‘I have done my best.’

  ‘You have done well, Bertha,’ the baron reassured her. ‘And you have fed us a comforting meal.’ There were murmurs of agreement, but Clara pushed her lips together so hard that they went white. Hal looked across the table at Hilda and Ozan. They appeared to be as excited as he was about sleeping in the tower. ‘Tomorrow,’ the baron continued, ‘I understand, we will be able to pay our respects?’

  Bertha nodded. ‘Tomorrow Alexander will be laid in the funeral carriage in the halt.’ Her bottom lip wobbled, and she clenched her jaw to steady her emotions. ‘Tomorrow there will be time for each of you to pay your last respects and say goodbye.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  KINDERTURM

  After lunch they filed back into the salon and Hal took the opportunity to lift the helmet visor of the suit of armour and peek inside.

  ‘Arnie.’ Bertha signalled for him to come to her and spoke softly. ‘Die Feuer wurden alle angezündet, um die Hexe fernzuhalten. Lass sie nicht raus.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Hilda whispered to Hal and Ozan. ‘Bertha told Arnie that all the fires have been lit to keep away the witch.’ Her dark eyes danced. ‘She believes in the curse!’

  Hal looked at the flames licking the logs in the hearth. Curse or no curse, he was glad the fires were blazing. It was cold in the mountains.

  ‘Arnie will take the children to the tower now,’ Bertha announced, ‘and I will take you to your rooms.’

  ‘Bertha, I want to show Rada the house,’ Freya said, approaching her. ‘Don’t worry about our bags. We’ll make our own way to our room. I know where it is.’

  Bertha’s expression darkened as Freya spoke. She didn’t like deviations from her plan. ‘Why are you here, Freya?’ she asked in a low, clipped voice. ‘You didn’t go to either of Alexander’s weddings – why attend his funeral?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you are happy he’s dead?’

  ‘Oh, Bertha, you’re so sweet,’ Freya mocked. ‘It’s such a mystery to me why Alexander left you and ran away to Berlin.’ She swirled away, grabbing Rada by the hand. ‘Come, Rada. I’m going to show you the orangery.’

  Arnie called the children. ‘Right, you Kotzbrocken. This way to the Kinderturm.’

  ‘What’s Kinderturm?’ Hal asked Hilda.

  ‘Children’s tower.’

  Arnie marched them back through the dining room and out of a door on the other side into a hall. ‘Those stairs go to the first floor – Opa’s rooms and the family bedrooms. From there, another staircase takes you up the tower.’ He pressed a button in the wall. It lit up. ‘Or there’s Opa’s elevator.’

  They filed into the lift. With all their bags, it was a tight squeeze, but after some wriggling they got the gate shut. When the door opened, they were in a freezing stone hallway. To the right was a staircase down, in front of them an oak door. Arnie twisted the iron ring door handle and a wave of heat washed over them as the door opened and they surged into the square room. Everyone began talking at once.

  ‘Oh, a nice warm fire!’ Hilda pointed at the merry blaze, giving Hal a meaningful look.

  ‘This is my bed,’ Ozan called out, running to a set of bunk beds on the far side of the room and leaping up
on to the top one.

  ‘I take this one,’ Hilda said, bellyflopping on a double bed covered by a patchwork quilt, beside a bookcase.

  ‘Where would you like to sleep?’ Hal asked Herman.

  Herman hesitated, then pointed to the bunk below Ozan, which meant the single bed closest to the fireplace was Hal’s.

  ‘What’s up there?’ Hal asked Arnie, pointing at a spiral staircase that corkscrewed into the roof.

  ‘TV and video games.’

  Hal looked at Ozan, and they scrambled for the stairs.

  ‘You break anything,’ Arnie called at their backs, ‘you pay for it.’

  Emerging under the pointed roof of the tower, Hal saw three beanbag chairs strewn across the floor in front of a dusty TV hooked up to an old console. Battered books, jigsaws and board games lined the low shelves around the edges of the room. On the top were model railway tracks.

  ‘Look! Arnold’s railway comes all the way up here,’ Hal exclaimed, but Ozan had turned on the games console and Herman was dragging a beanbag over, talking excitedly in German. It was cold away from the fire. Above his head, the shadowy recess of the tower was hung with cobwebs and Hal was puzzled by the black lumps he could see attached to the beams.

  The window in the attic room was mostly obscured by a model of beautifully rendered mountainside, with rocks, trees, shrubs. A tunnel passed through it for the model railway that ran off the bookcase into the deep ledge. Interested to see how it had been constructed, Hal peered over the top and down the gap between it and the glass. He was surprised to see a red railway signal lantern embedded in the Styrofoam, facing the window.

  Kneeling down, Hal examined the model and discovered a switch inside the tunnel. Taking his pen from his pocket, he poked it into the tunnel and flicked the switch. The red lantern went on. Hal grinned, pleased to have worked it out.

  Turning it off, he turned to tell Ozan and Herman, but they were intently playing a fighting game, so he went back downstairs. Hilda was curled up on her bed with her book.