“Ja, it is from my fadder,” she blushed. “It means ‘one who lives in der hut’.”
“That is quite handsome,” I said. “I am William, a member of the White Street Society. Please, come in, come in!”
I ushered Miss von Hitler into the front hall, and used the snow broom to bash the snow from her clothes. When at last she was fully swept, and a large quantity of ice lay melting on the tiles, I led her back into the library, praying to the spirit of Saint Nicholas that Augustus would not say or do anything untoward.
“Augustus!” I called, as we entered. “We have a guest. Miss von Hitler is — “
“Ho!” Augustus cried as he leapt out from behind the door and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the back of Miss Hitler’s skull. She fell, insensate, to the floor.
“What have you done?”
“Fractured her skull,” he said, proudly. “The less of these Christmas spies in my house the better.”
“We don’t even know what she wants,” I cried.
“Nothing good, I can assure you.”
“How do you know that?”
“It is better to strike first and ask questions later,” Augustus said. “That is the spirit of Christmas.”
“That is the opposite of the spirit of Christmas,” I said. “The spirit of Christmas is Christian charity, benevolence, and love toward one’s fellow man.”
“No,” Augustus said. “I think you’ll find that strike first and ask questions later is the actual spirit of Christmas. At least it was in my family.”
“I think she’s having a convulsion,” I said, as Miss von Hitler began to jerk and twitch upon the floor. “Help me get her into a chair.”
Augustus refused to touch her for health reasons, but once I had her seated upright her fits seemed to settle, and soon she grew still, then stirred and opened her puffy little eyes.
“Vat…vat happened?” she asked.
“You swooned,” I said.
“It must have been the sudden elevation of temperature when you entered the room,” Augustus said, coldly. “The warmth of the fire reacted with the coldness of your flesh, causing the blood to flee from your brain box as your veins experienced dilation, and so you toppled to the floor. Now, I demand to know what you are doing in my home.”
“Augustus Mortimer,” she gasped, eyes suddenly shining in a way that they did not shine when she had looked at me. “You are de famous ubermensch, der man who solves everything.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to speak English,” Augustus demanded.
“Doctor, I haf come from der German Kinder Orphanage for Forgettable Children to beg for your assistance,” she said. “We are plagued by troubles und only a man uf your learning can help us.”
“William, how’s your German? I’m going to insist that you translate this gibberish for me.”
“She says that she comes form the German Kinder Orphanage for Forgettable Children and they need your help on a case.”
“Tell her I’m not leaving the house until our city is free from the terror of the flying Sinterklaas,” he began. Then he placed his hands on his knees and leaned down into her face. “I’ll tell her myself. I…NO…LEAVE…PLACE…YOU…GO…HOME…NOW.”
At that, she burst into tears.
“I haf und tale to tell you dat is a tale uv life und death, un tale uv somethink so terrible it is hard to believe, even for me, un practical German woman,” she said.
Augustus shrugged helplessly at me, shaking his head.
“I’ll translate for you,” I said.
I handed Greta von Hitler my handkerchief but she rejected it in favor of blotting her brave tears on the hem of Augustus’s dressing gown. Then she told us a most extraordinary tale, a tale I would have dismissed as a pack of dirty lies if the teller were not so honest and virtuous.
“Every year, on December 5th, un handful uf orphans go missing from our haus,” she said. “Und they are never seen again. It haf happened six times, und now it is December 5th again. I beg you to come und solve this mystery.”
“What an amazing story!” I breathed.
“It’s more a matter for the police,” Augustus said. “That is if you can tear them away from their wassailing and eggnog.”
“Dey say because it is der orphans, no crime haf been committed,” Miss von Hitler said.
“There, you see,” Augustus said. “Mystery solved. Goodbye.”
“What would you like us to do, Greta?” I asked, moving closer and taking her hand.
“Please,” she said, so overcome that she pulled back her hand. “Call me Miss von Hitler.”
“Miss von Hitler,” I breathed. “One who lives in a hut, what would you like us to do?”
“I vould like you to come und stand guard over der orphans,” she said to Augustus. “For vun nacht only. See vat comes for dem in der nacht und carries dem avay.”
I took Augustus’s elbow and guided him into a remote corner of the room.
“What is she babbling about?” Augustus said. “The German language always sounds to me like fat drunkards arguing over their bowel movements.”
“She needs our help, Augustus,” I said. “Think of the helpless orphans who drop off to sleep in their tiny orphan beds, dreams of beer and sausage dancing in their heads, and then on December 5th some hideous creature carries them off, never to be seen again.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Where is your Christmas spirit?” I enjoined. “Has not the hallowed spirit of this merry season decked the barren halls of your heart with moral mistletoe? Are not yule logs of kindness for all mankind kindled in the kitchen of your soul? Does not a poker of peace on earth and goodwill to men prod the ashes of your benevolence?”
“No,” Augustus said. “I plan to spend this month barricaded inside my home, repelling all Christmas invaders with boiling water, and if that doesn’t work I shall use swords.”
“Listen, Augustus,” I said. “You know how I feel about orphans —”
“I do not.”
“Well, I am not about to let them be wantonly abducted so close to Christmas. I am going with Miss von Hitler and you are coming with me, or else you shall be left all alone in this house.”
The color drained from his face.
“Don’t go, William,” he begged.
“The last time Charles went to his Junior Ganymede Club he did not return until the following morning,” I said. “And out on that street I saw more carolers than I have ever seen before. If you wish to lie up here, besieged by season’s greetings until dawn, then you may. But they are persistent and eventually they will find their way into your house. And what then, Augustus? And what then? Stay here if you will, but I am going to rescue orphans!”
“Let me get my things,” he said, and disappeared upstairs.
He returned some half an hour later, hair brushed, and with a great many clankings and creakings emanating from beneath his Inverness cape.
“Please,” Miss von Hitler said, strain showing on her round and doughy face. “Ve must hurry. Der hour is getting late.”
“What are you wearing?” I asked Augustus.
“I would not dream of traveling unprepared on a Hellish night like this,” he said. “I have a pair of pistols with detachable Bowie knives in my waistcoat, my sword cane, my pistol cane, and my harpoon cane, a small harmonica gun hidden in my boot heel, a five-barrel pepperbox pistol in my other boot, a folding dirk strapped to my forearm, a short dagger concealed in my belt buckle, a poisoned needle concealed in my garnet ring, a garrote concealed in my watch chain, also a knife-pistol, a pistol-knife, and a knife-pistol-knife secreted about my person.”
“Is that all?” I asked, dryly.
“Of course not,” he said. “I also have this bottle of deadly poison in case things go badly and we are forced to take our own lives, and then I have this powerful sleeping draught in case we encounter dogs or needy women. They are in identical glass bottles, but I have put a small red dot on the labe
l of the bottle of poison so that there is absolutely no danger of mixing them up.”
“Miss von Hitler,” I said. “We are ready. Lead on!”
Though it was early in the evening, no hansom ‘cabs were available due to the season, but the walk was not far and, despite the chill, I was delighted to drink in the sights and sounds of winter merriment all around us in the streets, especially with a woman as graceful and as sensitive as Miss von Hitler by my side.
“How long have you been in the orphan trade?” I asked, attempting to learn more of the ways of this bewitching creature.
“Vot is he sayink?” she replied, referring to Augustus, who clanked along behind us, hands thrust deep in his pockets, no doubt fingering his knife-pistol or his pistol-knife or his knife-pistol-knife. To ease her worry, I leaned in to hear more clearly his mutterings.
“Eyes down…eyes down…don’t make eye contact…don’t look…don’t see their faces,” he chanted underneath his breath.
“He is simply enjoying the night air,” I said. “Don’t you find that Christmas brings out the best in people, Miss von Hitler?”
All around us, the best was coming out of everyone in a most uninhibited fashion. There were mummers mumming, drummers drumming, carolers caroling, belsnickelers belsnickeling, and I even spotted a few lords leaping. A dragoon of boys in blackface and women’s skirts raced by, leaving the strong smell of Christmas spirits in their wake and, on the corner, two brigades of men dressed in tent-sized hats, pantaloons made of ship’s sails, and chewing tobacco epaulettes were shouting “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” at each other at the top of their lungs.
We made what haste we could over the icy streets towards Kleindeutschland, or “Little Germany” as it was called by our more vulgar citizens. No city in the world, save Vienna and Berlin, was home to more Germans than Kleindeutschland and, for these hardy yet sensitive people, the Feast of Saint Nicholas was their most holy day. I anticipated that their neighborhood would be filled to overflowing with a yuletide spirit that would make the rest of the city seem drab by comparison.
As we approached, the splendors of December, that most blessed of months, continued to unfold. We saw celebratory pig chases, oxen roasts, yeomen shooting rifles out of the windows of their town houses. Bands of Fantasticals passed by us, playing charivari on their tin whistles, hornpipes, handbells, sleigh bells, and pots and pans. Clumps of brightly dressed hobbledehoys made merry as their black sheeps and Gallathumpians leapt and sang, occasionally punctuating their Yuletide antics by hurling their bodies through the display windows of local shops.
Then we crossed Houston Street, and everything changed. This street marked the lower boundary of Kleindeutschland, which occupied the entire eastern half of the “village” with its pulsating, oompah heart located in Tompkins Square Park, an old swamp transformed now into a genteel park full of beer tents, brass bands, and saplings. The Germans who lived in Kleindeutschland loved Christmas with every fiber of their being, but having been fed on beer since childhood they observed their Noels with a more sober spirit. Not for them the drunkard’s dinner followed by shouted carols and riotous assembly. As Miss von Hitler led us onto Avenue B, which was their Broadway, a warm, rich, wholesome, and almost holy spirit enveloped our little band.
“I think I’m going to vomit,” Augustus moaned, staggering against my side.
The enclave was cheap, but well-tended, and to ensure the safety of their streets, members of the numerous Germanic shooting societies had formed local watches to keep out the rowdier elements. The avenue was lined with neat rows of shops that were just closing for the night, as each industrious owner hurried home to his wife and children. Tailors tucked away their bolts of richly colored woolen cloth, while golden pastries and enormous loaves of bread still nestled in the bakery windows. Outside the grocer’s den, barrels of bright red apples shone in the snow alongside enormous wheels of crumbly yellow cheese.
The rich tang of woodsmoke tickled our nostrils while smiling men tipped their hats to Miss von Hitler and murmured, “Guten abend, guten abend.” From up ahead, the sound of a tuba and the strains of “O Holy Night” sung by an angelic chorus of purebred German children drifted through the air just as fat flakes of snow began to fall through the air once more.
“Animals,” Augustus muttered.
“They seem most delightful,” I said, observing a family through a second story window trimming one of the newly popular “Christmas trees.” “A model of order and hygenic living.”
“The Germans are the worst conspirators in this Christmas disgrace,” Augustus said. “They and all the other Snow Peoples of Northern Europe have infected us with this yuletide malady. Thanksgiving is a proper holiday that has dignity and meaning, but this foreign revelry grafted clumsily onto the American body is nothing more than a dead limb, rotting and giving off stench.”
“Seems a bit harsh,” I said as we passed a group of German women in snow hats and fur muffs singing “O Tannebaum” in close harmony.
“The German gives the outward appearance of health and industry,” Augustus said. “But they are creatures of extremes, obsessed with racial purity and beer. Few men are mentally prepared to reckon with the inner darkness of the German. A fanatical love of their fatherland, and a fixation on the borders of their precious Rhineland are the twin German neuroses that shall dominate the coming century, I promise you that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was watching those adorable babies ice skating and I entirely missed what you were saying.”
“Ve haf arrived,” Miss von Hitler interrupted. “Gentlemen, dis way.”
She led us up the steps of a neat brownstone building, dusted with powdery snow. Over the doorway was the inscription “Einigkeit - Macht - Stark.”
“What does that mean?” I asked her as we waited for admittance.
“Unity Makes Strength,” she said, then the door opened and we entered a world of warmth, good natured tumult, and delightful confusion.
On our left were thirty pegs and from the thirty pegs hung thirty coats belonging to the thirty orphans who called this place their home. From the parlor on our right we could hear their voices as they chanted their lessons, and from the back of the house we could smell spicy sausages and buttery pastries fresh from the ovens.
“Dis way,” Miss von Hitler said.
Soon we found ourselves seated in the tidy offices of Miss Goering, the stern but kind-hearted administratrix of the German Kinder Orphanage for Forgettable Children. She was an older woman, and years of kindness and wide smiles had given her a face as lined and worn as an old apple that has fallen out of the barrel and rolled away into the corner of the basement only to be discovered years later, perhaps to be remarked upon as resembling the face of the administratrix of a German orphan asylum.
“Velcome,” she said. “Perhaps you can see der fear upon my face as I velcome you?”
I looked closely and, indeed, I did see it, nestled in her folds and wrinkles.
“It is dis nacht,” she said. “Dis infernal nacht.”
“What is it about this nacht that worries you?” I asked.
She chewed her lips and began to cry.
“Auf,” she whimpered. “So much tragedy. I became der administratrix of der German Kinder Orphanage for Forgettable Children almost twenty years ago. Den I vas un beautiful girl full of hopes und dreams, like Miss von Hitler is now. Uf course I missed der beauty of der Rhineland but I felt that America vas un gutte place to live for ve German peoples, und it haf been un gutte place apart from der race-mixing. But fifteen years ago, our dreams haf turned into der nightmares.”
“That is because of the spicy sausages you enjoy eating before bedtime,” I said, injecting a little medical knowledge into this conversation. Miss Goering ignored my contribution.
“Some fifteen years ago, der first child vent missing on dis night. Little Rolf vas un naughty boy but full uf high spirits. Often ve wished he would die or perhaps lose der use uf
his tiny legs so dat he vould settle down to his studies und stop his pranking, but it vas hard to be angry at Rolf for more than un day or two; der child had a smile like un angel. Den, on dis night, he settled into bed with der udder orphans und after ve had retired to our bedchambers ve heard a great clatter. Ven we raced upstairs ready for der spanking uf Rolf ve found his bed to be empty. Der other orphans said dey had seen nothink, und our orphans are many thinks but dey are not liars. Ever since den ve are losing der children on dis night vith much promiscuity. Ve lose one, three, or sometimes even five, vithout fail. It haf been so long dat ve regard our noble duty as being like der vork of der fishmonger: sometimes der stock spoils. It is merely der price of doing business. But Miss von Hitler is right. Orphans are not der rotten fish. Ve must stop dis. Vhen we heard about der adventure you did in der Chinatown ve decided to contact you and beg for your assistance.”
“I have NO idea WHAT she’s saying,” Augustus said to me.
After I had repeated the words of Miss Goering to him, he lapsed into a thoughtful frame of mind.
“So it is always on this night?” I asked.
“Alvays,” she sighed.
“Around what time?”
“Around der midnight,” she said.
“What is it about this night?” I pondered aloud.
“It is the feast of Saint Nicholas tomorrow,” Augustus said. “A day of judgment and reckoning for children when they place the Nikolaus-Stiefel, or the Saint Nicholas Boot, outside their door and pray that it is filled with oranges and candy when they awaken, rather than the Nicholas-Rute, or large tree branch which indicates to the community that they are a slovenly and disgusting child who deserves only beatings. It is a day for the eating of Stutenkerl and the singing of songs in praise of their Sinterklaas.”
I looked at him in wonder. For a man who professed such contempt for Christmas he seemed to know a lot about it.
“Know your enemy, William,” he said. “Know your enemy. Tell me, Miss Goering, are you perhaps from the Tyrolian region of Austro-Bavaria?”
“Ja,” she said, wonderingly. “Near der border uf Salzburg.”
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